


A Matter of Choice

by Jadesfire



Series: The Name and The Knowing [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-08-14
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 85,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesfire/pseuds/Jadesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years have passed since Arthur drew the sword from the stone and reclaimed his throne from Morgana, and Camelot is enjoying its golden age. Magic once again flourishes, and through his alliances with the druids, the kingdom has unrivaled peace and prosperity.</p><p>When Merlin disappears in the icy wastes of Ismere, Arthur sets out to find him. After all, he can’t leave his friend, court sorcerer and the last dragonlord as Morgana’s prisoner. But the stakes are higher than just Merlin’s life, and while Guinevere protects Camelot from a traitor at home, Arthur must prevent Morgana from finding the power she is looking for. Because if he cannot stop her, then it is not just Camelot, but the whole of Albion that will suffer.</p><p>AU of Arthur’s Bane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> THANKS: With the risk of turning into an Oscar acceptance speech... Huge thanks to my lovely betas, Donutsweeper (who won’t let me get away with anything, dammit) and Darthtalia (who started the whole thing off by saying “what if...”) for sticking with me through this fic and the last without complaining, giving in or hitting me over the head with a blunt object. Also to Z, for last-minute hand-holding and sharp-eyed notes. Thanks must go to the lovely folks in #Paperlegends chat, especially Zaira and Crims, as well as the cheerleading folk on my friendslist who replied to the endless recyclings of my “oh good grief, I can’t do this” post with encouragement and funny animal gifs. And, of course, to The_Muppet, for such a well-run, awesome fest.
> 
> EVEN MORE THANKS: Hugest thanks, though, must go to my artist, Kay, who not only made me more pictures than any one author has a right to expect, but also made such a pitch-perfect soundtrack that without it, I’m not sure the second half of the story would have happened. Clicking any picture will take you to the art masterpost. Thanks, my dear. <3
> 
> ALSO: I feel I should also warn for the ending. While there no loose ends, and I promise that I won't leave you hanging, I’m not going to promise that all the characters ride off into the sunset together with all their issues neatly resolved. 
> 
> This story is technically a sequel to my story [The Last Secret](http://archiveofourown.org/works/759697) but can absolutely be read on its own.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

  
_Observe your enemies, for they first find out your faults._  
Antisthenes

The world disappears in a blanket of white as the snow falls more thickly, blanketing the ground before the wind sweeps in, icy and chilling, and clears it away again. Merlin shivers and draws his cloak more tightly around his neck, fumbling it a little through his thick gloves, although there is absolutely no way he’s going to take them off at the moment. The snow flurries sting his cheeks as he struggles with the hood, and his eyes are watering with the cold. All the while, the steady pull in his chest drags him on, stopping him from turning back. Instinct is a terrible thing, really.

There are many good things about being court sorcerer of Camelot, the last dragonlord and a trusted counsellor of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere. Not having to worry about being executed for having magic, his own quarters with a view of the courtyard and being able to talk to the dragon whenever he wants, although that last one isn’t always a bonus. One of the bad things though, is that whenever a really dangerous, difficult problem arises, it’s usually his job to deal with it. And this one definitely counts as dangerous, with rumours of raids on local villages, Ismere being occupied again and, most importantly, one name being whispered in the night.

Morgana.

It seems this is one mistake that he’s never going to be able to stop paying for, although he knows it’s not just the threat of that name driving him onwards. For three years, there has been no sign of her, and just as importantly to Merlin, no sign of Aithusa either. It’s as though, having made her choice to leave with Morgana, the white dragon simply vanished off the face of the earth. But the tug on his heart that started three months ago and is still driving him forwards tells a different story, and it’s one that he must know the ending to.

He staggers to the top of the next rise, sliding down the other side to get to the narrow path below, regretting again that he had to leave Kilgharrah at the edge of the snow tundra, however reluctant the great dragon was to continue on with him. It’s understandable, of course. The wind is biting and fierce, and would be difficult to fly through, even if Kilgharrah was willing to carry him. They probably both would have frozen within an hour.

_"I wish to find her as much as you do," Kilgharrah said, stretching his wings a little. "But I fear this is as far as I can go."_

_Ice already crunched underneath their feet, and within a few miles, Merlin knew the landscape would lose all traces of life, fading into the white on white that stretched all the way to Ismere. He shivered just at the thought of it._

_"I have to go on," he said, looking up at the dragon and seeing the reservation in the huge eyes. "Morgana will not have chosen this place by accident, but no one comes to Ismere unless they have to. We must know what she is doing out here."_

_"I know." There was an undercurrent of guilt in Kilgharrah's voice and in the sense of him in Merlin's mind, something that they were both used to by now. "I will wait for you as long as I can, but the king will want to know what is happening."_

_"Tell Arthur not to worry." The instruction was automatic, the same message Merlin had been sending home for the last three weeks. "And tell him not to come anywhere near this place. If Morgana is truly here, then the last thing we need is for him to fall into her hands."_

_"I will tell him," Kilgharrah said evenly and Merlin sighed, because he didn’t really expect Arthur to follow that instruction either._

_"Fine, but tell him that if he does insist on coming himself against all common sense, he's to bring Eric with him at the very least. Or if Aeldred and his men are still in Camelot, maybe they would accompany him. Or-"_

_"Merlin." It was not often that Kilgharrah used that exasperated tone on him anymore. "I am sure that the king will know what to do."_

_Merlin wished he could be so sure, particularly since none of them really knew how powerful Morgana had grown. Instead of saying that, he stamped his cold feet to get some feeling back into them, and gave Kilgharrah a nod of acknowledgement._

_"You're right," he said, pulling on his gloves. "If all goes well, I should be able to send word to Camelot in four days."_

_"I understand." Kilgharrah huffed a breath, warm across Merlin's face for a moment before the cold washed back in._

_"Good luck, Merlin."_

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

For all that he would never have ordered Kilgharrah to come with him, it would have been nice to have company out here right now. There are spells for warming, and he keeps his mind busy as he trudges onwards by reciting every one of them under his breath, imagining how good it would feel to use just one of them right now. He doesn’t dare, not with the presence at the back of his mind so strong and close. And if Aithusa is close, Morgana cannot be far away.

At least once he gets onto the frozen path he’s a little sheltered, towering piles of frozen snow on either side giving protection from the worst of the wind. In a different land, he can imagine this would be a dried up stream bed, its path still cut through the higher ground on either side and giving travellers an easier route. Here in Ismere, it feels like a giant finger has reached down and traced a jagged line through the landscape, just wide enough for three men to walk abreast. He’s out of the wind, for sure, and the path is flat enough that he’s only got to worry about slipping on the ice, not tripping over a rock hidden in deep snow.

On the other hand, there is no cover here, only the rising slopes on either side of him, and there are no side paths or sheltered caves, and the slopes are too steep to scramble up again, which means the further he goes along, the more trapped he’ll become. He debates for a moment whether he should use his magic after all, just to see the path ahead, but then dismisses the idea, settling for speeding up into a gentle jog instead, hoping it will help to keep him warm. 

There’s no way of knowing how Morgana's powers have grown or changed in the last three years, and he’d barely been able to defeat her before. The only thing he has on his side right now is the element of surprise and - he hopes - being able to slip in and out of Ismere before she even knows he was there.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls.

The sound is unsettling, seeming to pass through him, so that no matter how much he tells himself that it’s probably miles away, he still feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He speeds up a little, wishing he'd thought to change the colour of his cloak before stepping out onto the snow. The rough brown wool is as warm as cloth comes, but he feels horribly conspicuous against all the whiteness. Arthur would no doubt lecture him on the art of camouflage if he were here, which would be a nice distraction from the howling wolves and the instinctive fear settling in the pit of Merlin’s stomach.

Not that camouflage would be much help against the wolves. The howls are much closer by, echoing from the snowy slopes around him so that he can’t even tell if it was in front or behind him. If it comes to it, he will have to defend himself, and either hope that Morgana doesn’t sense it or that he’ll be able to flee before she finds him. He hopes he won’t have to decide.

He’s glancing over his shoulder as he turns the next corner, skidding to a stop and realising that Arthur would have berated him for such a simple mistake. In front of him, the wolf is standing in the middle of the path, baring its teeth and growling at him as he holds up his hands instinctively. He stands as still as he can, keeping his eyes on it, hoping he can judge when it’s going to attack. There’s a knife in his belt, and he doesn’t doubt that if he makes a grab for it, the wolf will strike. If he’s lucky, he’ll manage to dodge the first attack, giving him space to draw the knife and hope that he’s quick enough. He’ll only get one chance. It’s only when the wolf doesn’t move, just stands there staring at him, that he realises the mistake was not in failing to look where he was going. The wolf is not the enemy he should be worried about.

The blast strikes him from behind before he can defend himself against it, and he’s thrown into a bank of snow, unable to right himself in time to do more than fall back onto the path on his hands and knees, all the breath knocked out of him and magic buzzing under his skin. Cursing himself for thinking that not using his magic would hide him, he's just managed to raise his head and start to bring his tamped down power to bear, when the second blow catches him in the ribs and he’s flying again, this time hitting his head hard as he tumbles back to the ground.

His last thought as the darkness overtakes him is that if Morgana doesn’t get there first, Arthur is going to kill him.


	2. Dragon

  
_Hope doesn't come from calculating whether the good news is winning out over the bad. It's simply a choice to take action._  
Anna Lappe

It is probably not dignified for the queen of Camelot to run through her own castle, but there are more important things right now than dignity. The air outside is shockingly cold as she gasps for breath, trying to keep her skirts out of her way as she joins the frantic dash out of the courtyard and down into the training grounds.

Arthur is already there, of course, his cloak catching in the breeze, and his hair ruffled. His cheeks are red, not just from the cold, she knows, but from running all the way here, the knights and lords and courtiers all trailing in his wake. 

At the edge of the path, Guinevere pauses for breath, staring out into the field beyond. People are flooding in from every direction now, splashes of red and silver against the green and white of the ground. They are forming a circle around Arthur. A very large circle, for a very good reason.

Kilgharrah lifts his head, as though sensing something, and then turns towards her. Even from this distance, his eyes are huge and penetrating, so utterly alien that she cannot tell whether it is a look of approval or disdain. What she can tell is that something is wrong. The dragon rarely visits Camelot, and when he does, he calls Merlin from the edge of the forest, not wanting to come within arrow’s distance of the walls. For him to come so close, filling the training ground with his bulk as his tail sweeps from side to side, whatever he has to say must be urgent.

As if to underline that, he turns from her, shifting his attention back to Arthur and shifting back a little as though fidgeting with impatience. Guinevere is not entirely sure if dragons can fidget, but she understands the obvious cue, so she takes her skirt in one hand and lets Elyan steady her as they descend the slippery slope down onto the training ground. The crowd parts to let them through, and it’s not until they are much closer that she realises how hard she is gripping Elyan’s hand. Somehow, she always manages to forget just how huge the dragon is. She reminds herself again that he has sworn his loyalty to Arthur, and that Merlin has told her a thousand times that he can do nothing to harm Camelot. There’s more to it than that, she knows, something deeper between king and dragon that she doesn’t truly understand. But she doesn’t need to, just needs to remember that Kilgharrah in on their side. She repeats it to herself silently as the huge head dips a little in greeting, and she’s given an excellent view of those enormous teeth.

"My lady," he says, as respectful as always. His oath was not to her, but he always treats her with the same regard as Arthur and Merlin, which does much to calm her nerves.

Something prickles at the back of her neck, though, when she looks at Arthur, and he doesn’t smile back at her. 

"Kilgharrah has brought news from Merlin," he says, and there is something guarded in his expression that makes Guinevere frown.

"What has happened?" she asks, looking up at the dragon, and hoping that the next thing she will hear is the usual reassurances. Merlin has sent word back a few times since he left six weeks ago, each message sending her heart racing, but each one reporting the same. That he was fine, that he hadn’t found anything to report on yet, that he still had that same, nagging sense of Aithusa that would not let him rest, and that he would write again when he could.

Kilgharrah does not instantly respond to her question, and Guinevere feels something knot in her stomach. Arthur’s hand tightens on hers.

At last, the dragon says, "He has gone into the wastes of Ismere, where I could not follow him."

Guinevere glances at Arthur, whose face is still grim and shuttered. "When was this?"

"Five days ago." There is something uncomfortable in the dragon’s voice, as though being forced into an admission of guilt. "He told me to bring a message back to Camelot, but I waited at the edge of the plain for as long as I could, hoping he would return himself. If he had been able to send word, he would have done so by now."

It is unspoken between them that there is only one thing - one person - who could prevent Merlin from contacting them if he really wanted to. If it were anyone else, she might be less concerned by the lack of news, but if Merlin has not send word when he said he would, then there can be little doubt what has happened.

There is real distress in Kilgharrah’s words that Guinevere understands. From the first time she saw Merlin with Aithusa, she knew that the bond between them was more than just that of master and servant. They are family, as close as Merlin and Arthur have always been, and just as Arthur would, she knows that Kilgharrah will blame himself for anything that happens to Merlin. She also knows what Arthur will do next, and turning to him, she uses his grip on her hand to pull him closer. 

"When do you leave?" she asks, and tries not to smile when relief floods across his face.

"Tomorrow, I hope," he says roughly, then looks up at Kilgharrah. "Return to the wastelands," he tells him. "I want to know everything there is to know about what is going on up there. If all goes well, we should be able to join you in two days, three at the most."

Kilgharrah inclines his head. "I understand, your majesty," he says, and Arthur’s hand tightens painfully on Guinevere’s as the dragon bows his head, then crouches and leaps into the air, his great wings sending a gust of wind that ruffles her hair and pulls at her skirts. When Arthur turns back to her, she understands the concern in his eyes. Kilgharrah is rarely openly disrespectful, but he is rarely openly deferential either. For him to give Arthur his title, he must be even more worried than she had realised.

"There is much to do," Arthur says, looking away towards the castle, his eyes already unfocused and distracted. "I will need to speak to the stable master, and Sir Eric must be found."

"And I will call the privy council," she says. "If you are to ride to Ismere, you must not go unprepared."  
Rather than speak, Arthur just nods, lifting her hand to kiss it gently before releasing her and striding off towards his men. Guinevere turns to watch him go, then catches Elyan’s eye.

"Tell the others that we meet tonight. We will need all the maps of Ismere that Camelot holds, as well as the latest reports of druid encampments."

He doesn’t ask any foolish questions, just gives her the briefest of nods before setting off towards the castle at a jog. There will be much to do before they can leave, but Guinevere cannot bring herself to start on it all just yet. Rubbing her cold arms, she turns her back on Camelot, staring out across the now empty grounds, only some flattened patches of grass showing where Kilgharrah had stood. Even straining her eyes against the bright winter sky, she cannot see him now, his dark shape already out of sight and heading north again. That is where the cold wind is coming from, she is sure of it, and she shivers a little, trying not to think of Merlin out there, alone and facing who knew what kind of danger.

Shaking herself a little, she forces herself to start walking back towards the castle, smiling gratefully as her maid comes half-running towards her, a cloak already held out for her. Not alone, she thinks, letting Sefa fuss over her a little. Merlin must know that; they would never let him remain alone.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

A few hours later, she is warmed through, standing with the rest of Arthur’s privy council in the royal chambers poring over a map of the five kingdoms.

"From what Kilgharrah could tell us, they are taking people from all the villages on the edge of the wastelands," Arthur says, tracing the outline with his finger. "Whatever route we choose, we risk meeting them head on."

"Doesn’t sound so bad," Percival says, folding his arms across his chest, and while Arthur smiles, he also shakes his head.

"Just taking out a few raiding parties will not help us, and we risk losing men before we reach Ismere. I don’t want Morgana to even know we are coming until we are on her doorstep."

"Then you need a different route," Guinevere says, considering. "What if you were to approach Ismere from the west?"

"Through Annis’ lands?" There is both surprise and thoughtfulness on Arthur’s face, and even Leon gives her an approving glance.

Gaius leans on the table, running his eyes over the map "It would certainly take Morgana by surprise."

Nodding, Arthur turns to Leon. "Would Annis grant passage to so many armed men?" he asked.

"I believe she would, sire."  
And with Leon’s words, Guinevere can feel the mood in the room shift a little, still with the undercurrent of worry, but now covered with the determination of a plan to follow.

"You will need more than just the knights if you truly mean to confront Morgana, sire," Gaius says, lifting his head. It has been something of an unspoken argument between them, that despite a great increase in the number of knights during the last three years, only one of them is an acknowledged sorcerer.

Pressing his lips together, Arthur frowns. "Sir Eric will come with us, of course."

Guinevere thinks she understands his hesitation. While Sir Eric has proven both his loyalty and his abilities in the last year, it is hard for Arthur to ride with any sorcerer but Merlin. He does not know Eric’s strengths, weaknesses and limitations, and will not know how hard he can push him, or how much he can expect. But Gaius is right, and she nods as he tries to press his point home.

"And the druids, sire? You know that Aeldred and his people have just been waiting for an opportunity to show their loyalty."

"His people were the first to sign a treaty with us, Gaius. He has been an ally of Camelot for more than two years, and he has nothing to prove to me or to themselves. I will not ask them to risk themselves in this way. Morgana is-"

"Morgana has Merlin." Despite his outspoken reputation, Gwaine is usually quiet in council, responding to questions rather than offering opinions, and preferring to raise his objections later with Arthur in private, so when he speaks, all eyes turn to him, although his attention is wholly on Arthur. "He is more than just another sorcerer to them, Arthur, and you are not just their king. I think if we don't take them with us, they might just follow anyway."

From the look on Arthur’s face, Guinevere knows that he is regretting the Camelot rumour mill, which has worked with its usual speed. There had been no way to keep either Kilgharrah’s arrival or his message secret once orders were given for a company of knights to ride out early the next morning. She knows Arthur remains uncomfortable with the devotion shown to both him and Merlin by the druids who have been returning to Camelot in the past three years. While Merlin bears the attention with a slightly baffled air, on Arthur, it seems to weigh more heavily.

But he has never been one to shirk responsibility, nor to refuse help when it is offered. "I had not planned for this to be an all-out assault. That was the whole point of Merlin going alone, the idiot. He was supposed to just find out what was going on and report back so that we could make proper plans. We are not ready for open battle." He sighs, then nods to Leon. "Dispatch riders to Annis at once, and tell Aeldred to put together a small company, only the strongest sorcerers he has and ten at the most, preferably fewer. We will need to move swiftly and quietly. This is a raid, not an invasion."   
He straightens a little, his expression making it clear that this is the end of the council. "We ride at dawn. Remember, if we're to succeed, no-one must know of our intentions."

"Understood, sire."

Gaius lingers for a moment as the others leave, and Guinevere chooses to take the maps over to the chest in the corner, giving him and Arthur at least a semblance of privacy.

"I will find him, Gaius," Arthur says softly.

"I know, Arthur."

Guinevere stares down at the map, knowing she should roll it and put it safely away, but finding herself drawn instead to the lines of the landscape. There are tiny peaks for mountains, smudges of white for snow, all so simple and benign when drawn by the cartographer’s hand. It is easy to forget that they represent days of hard going and harsh weather, not to mention whatever is lurking in the icy valleys that the map cannot show her.

The sound of the door closing stirs her from her reverie, and she looks around to find Arthur alone at the table, his face unreadable in the candlelight.

"You don’t have to go," she says, coming over to join him. The words are a lie, and they both know it, even if she feels she has to say them.

"Yes, I do," he says, reaching out to draw her closer. "It’s Merlin. Who knows what kind of trouble he could get himself into in five days. He’s probably tripped and fallen into a snowdrift or something."

"I’m sure you’re right." She leans into him, trying to keep the concern from her voice. If that is the worse insult Arthur can think of, then he is even more worried than he is saying. Normally, the two of them are far more imaginative.

_"Of all the imbecilic, idiotic, pig-headed, selfish, brainless morons!" Merlin slammed the door behind him, making Guinevere jump almost out of her seat. Arthur just raised an eyebrow._

_"Do come in, Merlin. It’s not like I was having a quiet dinner with my wife, or anything like that." He lifted a hand to George, who was standing by the sideboard as imperturbable as ever. "Please, George, lay a plate for the court sorcerer."_

_"I hate you, and don’t think you’re going to distract me with food this time." Coming over to the table, Merlin dropped the pile of parchment he was carrying, then jabbed a finger onto the heap as though trying to stab them. "You could have told me."_

_"Well, yes, I could," Arthur said, moving his goblet so that George could put down a plate. "But where would the fun in that have been?"_

_"Fun?" Merlin’s voice was loud enough that even George raised an eyebrow at him. "You thought it would be fun to suddenly declare me court sorcerer of Camelot without even asking me?"_

_"You weren’t here. Have some of the chicken, it’s very good."_

_Narrowing his eyes, Merlin glared across the table. "You deliberately waited until I was taking the treaty to Aeldred, didn’t you?" He lifted his finger from the papers and pointed it at Arthur instead. "You went behind my back and-"_

_"And what?" Still infuriatingly calm, Arthur lifted his goblet as though to toast Merlin. "Gave you proper standing in the court after a year of rumours? Made a full declaration that magic is not only lawful but welcome in Camelot? Formalised your position so that people stop muttering about you in the hallways?"_

_"I hardly think this is going to stop them muttering," Merlin said, but Guinevere knew from the sulkiness in his tone that he was beaten. She smiled sympathetically at him._

_"Come and have some dinner," she said, holding out a hand, "and tell us about your trip."_

_Merlin gave Arthur a final hard glare, but when he turned to her, his face cleared a little, and he smiled wearily. "It was very good," he said, finally coming round the table to take the seat opposite her. "They’re still nervous, obviously," he said, keeping his eyes on her as he reached out and swapped his empty plate for Arthur’s full one, with barely a pause for breath. "But they’ll read it, and I think I convinced them to come to court before Imbolc to discuss it." He did pause then, looking down at the food, a slight flush on his cheeks. "They, er. They want me to mediate."_

_"Of course they do." Apart from a brief roll of his eyes, Arthur hadn’t reacted to Merlin stealing his dinner, and instead of helping himself to more, he reached over and took a piece of chicken back. George, who was used to this by now, returned to his place on the other side of the room, knowing that getting between Arthur and Merlin over dinner was a sure way to end up covered in gravy._

_"What’s that supposed to mean?" For a brief moment, Merlin looked as though he might be planning on taking the chicken right out of Arthur’s hand, but then he glanced at Guinevere and subsided a little. She had long-since banned magic at the dinner table, on the basis that they were both trouble enough already._

_"It means, idiot, that they trust you. It’s a compliment. Learn to take them."_

_"It’s not like I hear them very often, is it?"_

_Knowing that this road led to yet more exchanging of insults and the occasional thrown bread roll, Guinevere leaned forward and helped herself to some of the chicken still left on Merlin’s - Arthur’s - plate. "Gentlemen," she said, sitting back again, smiling a little as they both stared at her. "May I suggest you leave the debating for the council meeting, where I have no doubt all the knights will be greatly entertained. It has been nearly three weeks since we saw you, Merlin, and I am more interested in hearing about the druids than listening to you and Arthur shout at each other."_

_There were days when she felt more like a mediator - or possibly a nanny - than a queen, and as they both settled back in their chairs, looking a little sheepish, she couldn’t help but smile._

_Arthur gestured for George to come and fill Merlin’s cup, which was usually the signal for cessation of hostilities. "Did you find the person you were looking for?" he asked, and Guinevere thought she saw Merlin flinch briefly before he shook his head._

_"Not yet, but I haven’t given up." There was something underneath the simple exchange that she was missing, she knew, but Merlin’s smile was back in place as he served Arthur some more chicken and a piece of bread before turning to her._

_"Sorry, you asked about the druids," he said, his eyes a little distant with the memory. " It was really interesting. The way they use magic? It really makes me realise I’ve got so much left to learn."_

His modesty, and occasional foolish underestimation of his own ability, makes it easy to forget that Merlin is neither helpless nor hopeless. It’s still a nice lie to tell themselves, though. It is so much better to think that he has fallen victim to some delaying but ultimately harmless accident, and that all Arthur needs to do is ride out and rescue him. Again. Anything is better than thinking about the alternatives.

"He knows everything about Camelot, Gwen," Arthur says, his voice low and hoarse. "If Morgana has him, the things he could tell her. The things she could make him tell her." He shakes his head, and when she looks up, the muscles in his jaw are clenching.

She takes a deep breath, trying not to let it tremble too much, because she knows what Arthur is doing. Fear for Camelot is easier to bear, somehow. "You know he would never betray us," she says firmly, stepping away a little and trying to work up a little indignation on Merlin’s behalf. It’s not easy, through the worry.

When Arthur turns to look down at her, the shadow falls across the rest of his face, making his eyes look dark and haunted. "That’s what I’m afraid of. Gwen, if he refuses-"

He pulls her close again, tight against his chest so that his chin rests on the top of her head. Through the embrace, she can hear all he is not saying, feel the tremor in his arms as he grips her to him. He would have the same concern for any of his knights, she knows, and his response would be the same. There is no doubt that he would ride to the rescue of any one of them, without a second thought. But he would not fear the outcome in the same way, would not harbour doubts about what might happen if they fell into Morgana’s hands.

In truth, Guinevere does not want to think about that either, so she turns her face upwards and looks at him instead, trying to be the solid support he will need if he is to ride out against Morgana in search of the one person who could hope to stand against her, and who may already be lost to them. When Arthur looks down at her, she meets his gaze unsmilingly, offering no false comfort, only holding him more tightly so that her voice is steady as she says, "Bring him home."

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

She and Gaius stand on the battlements to watch the knights ride out, their red cloaks billowing behind them. Gwaine is riding beside Arthur at the head of the column, and he glances up at them as he passes, giving Guinevere the slightest of salutes. She nods in reply, moving to other side of the wall so she can watch them ride away from the city.

"They will meet the druids at Inverham," Gaius says. "Aeldred is a good man, he will make sure they are kept safe."

"As will Arthur," Guinevere replies, taking his offered arm and letting him lead her back towards the staircase into the cast. "That is not what I am worrying about."

Gaius is silent at first, and Guinevere knows that he must worry more than any of them. Even with Merlin's new standing at court, and the obvious growth in his powers that even Arthur has noticed, he still defers to Gaius in most things, and the two of them are as close as they have ever been.

"This is not the first time that Merlin has got himself in trouble," he says, and if he is attempting to sound casual and reassuring, he is not entirely succeeding. "Arthur has always rescued him before."

"Not from Morgana."

They stop at the top of the stairs, Gaius turning to her with a frown. "That is what is troubling you."

It's not a question, but she nods anyway. "It has been more than three years, Gaius. That is why we paid so little attention to the rumours of men disappearing in the north, because we thought it was just a border scuffle. But if it is Morgana?" She shakes her head. "I do not like this at all. What does she need so many men for? An army?"

"That is what Arthur wants to find out," he says, putting his hands on her arms. "And then he and Merlin will come back with the news, and we will be able to prepare for whatever she has planned." His grip tightens a fraction, as close to a hug as she will get in public. "This is not the same kingdom she took three years ago."

Guinevere takes a deep, calming breath, forcing some of the lurking fear back into the shadows of her mind. She cannot banish it completely, only ignore it at present. And ignore it she must, if she is to hold Arthur's kingdom for him while he is absent. When Gaius releases her, and she starts to follow him down the stairs, she automatically lifts the royal seal out from her bodice, the gold warmed by her skin and glittering in the early morning light. Gaius is right, this is not the same kingdom that Morgana left three years ago, and if she should return, Guinevere is determined that they will be ready for her.

~

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

Dinner that night is a strange affair, and in truth, Guinevere doesn’t much feel like eating. She said as much to Gaius before shooing him away to his chambers, which probably explains why her table is laid with a particularly attractive spread, even though she is the only one sitting at it. Knowing Gaius, he would have spoken to Sefa, who would have spoken to the kitchens, and they all would have conspired to make the food look as tempting as possible. It’s not working.

She shakes her head when Sefa tries to put a piece of ham onto her plate, possibly assuming that Guinevere will find it more appetising than the chicken she already has.

"I can’t eat this, I’m sorry," she says, pushing the plate away. Her mind is too full of the sound of hoof beats on cobbles, the image of red cloaks swirling as the knights rode out of Camelot. Trying to eat over the noise and sight of that is impossible.

Sefa looks worried. "I'll get you something else, my lady," she says, reaching down to take the plate away, and probably leave the room in search of whatever it is she thinks that Guinevere might eat.

"No." Putting a hand on the girl's arm to stop her, Guinevere shakes her head. "If you could just sit with me." She feels a little embarrassed at having to ask, but she does not wish to be alone with her worries right now, and while shy, Sefa is a comforting, calm presence. On impulse, Guinevere asks her, "Are you hungry?"

The shake of Sefa’s head is probably automatic, since servants are not supposed to eat from the royal plate. Guinevere would believe her, if she did not know what it means to be a personal servant, that the hours are long and strange, and that meals should be taken whenever available. "Eat. Please." She gives the girl an encouraging smile, which widens into a real one when Sefa cautiously takes a tiny morsel of bread, holding it as though she is not quite sure what to do with it. Not much, but it’s a start.

Sefa looks so young, although she can hardly be much younger than Guinevere herself. But then Guinevere had been born into the life of the castle, comfortable in these hallways almost as soon as she was old enough to hold a plate. Sefa looks as though she still gets lost between here and the great hall. As she eventually decides that the bread is probably safe to eat, and raises it to her lips, her sleeve falls a little, and Guinevere has her opening.

"You're a druid," she says, gesturing to the swirling mark on Sefa's forearm. When Sefa nods and tries to cover it, blushing, Guinevere smiles gently. "There are many of your people in Camelot these days. How long have you been here?"

"Since last Beltane, my lady." Sefa's voice is always gentle, and now it is so soft that Guinevere has to strain a little to hear it.

"And how do you like Camelot?" It's a simple question, not really requiring an honest answer if Sefa does not wish to give it.

"It is not quite what I expected." There is a little embarrassment in her tone now, and Guinevere smiles, as much to herself as to Sefa.

"It is not, or Merlin is not?"

This time, Sefa actually blushes, as though Guinevere had read her mind. She sees it a lot, the druids who come to Camelot seeking the wisdom of the great Emrys, only to find that he is a sharp-tongued, gentle-hearted young man who would as soon spend the day making poultices for Gaius as he would giving judgements or offering magical assistance. Not that he ever turns anyone away, much to Arthur's exasperation, but they are all used to seeing clusters of brown-cloaked druids standing in quiet corners having hushed, heated debates. Sefa is not the first to find Merlin baffling.

Saving her from having to answer, Guinevere smiles and pats her arm. "It's fine," she says, trying to be reassuring despite her amusement. "You are not the first to notice."

Sefa smiles a little. "In truth, I am not sure what I expected. Everyone has been so kind."

It is hard not to raise an eyebrow at that. "Not all the stories of city folk being cold and uncaring are true, Sefa."

"I know," Sefa says quickly, looking back down at her plate. "It's just a lot to take in at first."

And being raised to the position of lady’s maid to the queen must require a lot of adjustment as well. Even if the Steward saw something in this shy, quiet druid girl to recommend her to Guinevere, it seems it will take some time for her to come out of herself. Still, there is something beneath the nervousness that Guinevere can't quite put her finger on, but that is making her a little uneasy for Sefa. Trying not to sound like she is prying too much, but also wanting to know more, she asks "Where are you from?"

"I was born in Langmere, my lady. Although we moved around a lot while I was growing up. We had to."

There is a definite bitterness under the words this time, and Guinevere feels something in her heart ache. For every step forwards that they take, every alliance built or friend made, there are a hundred sins to atone for. That they are not hers does not make it better, or easier for her to handle.

"Do you still have family there?" she asks, feeling her heart sink when Sefa shakes her head.

"No," she says, "my family are not there anymore."

"But you have made friends in Camelot?" This is becoming more of an interrogation than Guinevere had hoped for, and she promises herself that she will not press the girl any further, not if she is this uncomfortable. Maybe she just needs a little more time.

Sefa smiles a little. "A few friends," she says, and Guinevere notices the slight blush that goes along with the smile.

"And maybe someone a little more than just a friend?" That is probably a step too far for their present level of confidences, so Guinevere shakes her head as Sefa’s blush deepens. "You don’t have to answer that," she says, smiling. "It’s just been nice to have someone to talk to. You’d think I’d be used to it by now," she adds. "Being left behind, not knowing if he’ll return."

"You love him," Sefa says, and for the first time, there is real warmth in her voice, something behind the careful servant’s mask. "I understand."

Thinking that maybe she can ask a little more if she is careful, Guinevere tilts her head a little. "Do you have someone you worry about?" When she gets a shy nod in reply, she goes on, "But not someone you can talk about." She doesn’t need to add _not to the queen, anyway._

"No, my lady." Sefa gets to her feet, brushing invisible crumbs from her skirts. She takes Guinevere’s plate from the table, then hesitates. "There's no greater warrior than the King, my lady. He will return."

The simple conviction in her voice is comforting, and Guinevere is more than a little touched that she has at least made the attempt. "I know," she says, however much she does not feel it. "You're right. Thank you."

Only once Sefa is gone does Guinevere rest her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. She should sleep. Sitting up all night worrying about Arthur and Merlin and Elyan and the others will not bring them home to her more swiftly. Equally, lying awake in her bed will do her no good at all. Instead, she takes a candle from the table and goes over to the desk in the window. She has to light the remaining candles in order to see well enough to read, but she manages to work through an entire pile of requests and petitions before the first of them starts to spit and gutter.

Taking it as a sign, she straightens, grimacing a little at the ache in her shoulders and back. It is fully dark outside now, and when she gets up to look out of the window, she cannot even see the moon, only a dim glow where it is hidden behind a cloud. Movement catches her eye, and she sees the flutter of something passing through the gate. A moment later, a cloaked and hooded figure emerges, heading out of the castle towards the training grounds, or possibly the woods beyond. The figure’s face is hidden, but Guinevere knows that braid of fair hair, the trim on the bottom of the swirling skirts, and she finds herself smiling before she can help herself.

It doesn’t matter that Sefa cannot tell her the secret, and for all that it makes Guinevere’s heart ache, it is a good thought that at least one of them will be with their loved one this evening.

The closest Guinevere can get is her work, answer letters written to Arthur, granting pleas in his name, or agreeing to audiences for those desperate for the king’s help. There is so much to do here that she knows there is little chance she will be able to finish it all tonight. That does not really matter, though. However much she does, there will always be more. The point for tonight is to carry on performing her duties as queen, to ensure that kingdom continues to run in Arthur’s absence, but most of all, to make sure that she keeps herself busy.

Perhaps that way, she will eventually be tired enough to sleep.

~

Merlin wakes in slow stages, drifting from dreams to reality and back again a few times before the pain pulls him into consciousness, even if the world around him seems rather fuzzy. His head hurts, and when he stirs, there is a flare of something hot and sharp across his side. Beyond that, he can feel a gentle prickling against his skin as though he’s wearing new, itchy wool all over. Slowly, he takes a few deep breaths, trying not to move too much until he is sure exactly how badly his ribs are hurt. From the ache as he expands them, nothing is broken, they are just badly bruised, which is quite painful enough, but at least he is not risking further damage if he moves.

Very carefully, he extends his senses outwards, first trying to gather information from his body, then further, with his magic. It doesn’t help much. He’s lying on a hard surface, not cold enough for stone, so it must be wood. When he shifts his cheek just a fraction, he feels the drag of it on his skin, and he’s sure. A rough wooden surface. A table, perhaps? Is he back in Gaius’ workroom in Camelot? No, there is a chill breeze blowing across his back, not the warmth of Gaius’ fire. Besides, he doesn’t have that kind of luck. Even from his magic, he cannot get a sense of where he is, so he finally bows to the inevitable and blinks his eyes open.

He was been right about the wood, and his vision is full of it at first, the deep, dark brown making it seem as though he's still got his eyes closed. Blinking again, he manages to look up and around, still not sure if his head is ready to be moved yet. His eyes focus on something a few feet away, dark stripes rising up from the floor and it's a moment before he can work out what he's seeing. When he does, his startled breath makes his ribs hurt again and he has to bite back a groan. Now he can see better, it's easy to work out what's going on.

The dark stripes are bars like those of a cage or a cell, and beyond them, he can only see a vast, empty room. It’s too well-lit to be a dungeon, even if the light is pale and watery, although that might just be him. With the weather outside, he’s hardly surprised that it’s cold in here, and he supposes there’s no harm now in using one of those warming spells. His face is still half-pressed to the wooden surface beneath him, but he’s never actually needed words anyway. He closes his eyes again and thinks the words.

The first thing that happens is that the prickling sensation across his skin increases sharply, making him jerk a little and scrape his cheek across the wood. There’s warmth underneath it, barely even the gentle heat that he was hoping for, and the effort of producing it leaves him feeling drained and tired, not to mention the desperate itching that is still pulling at him. He must have hit his head harder than he’d realised, to lose control this much.

He can’t stay like this, and he's about to attempt sitting up when there's a faint sound, just on the edge of hearing. Within a few seconds, it resolves itself into voices, and he closes his eyes again, not wanting to give himself away just yet.

"We don't have long before Arthur comes after him."

It's not warm in here anyway, and the words send an ice-cold shiver down Merlin's spine. He's instantly glad he decided to carry on playing dead for a while. Morgana sounds as imperious and commanding as ever, while Merlin still feels as though he was dragged here by his hair. Maybe he was.

Aware that he's drifting, he makes himself focus on the conversation again.

"-yourself. There's nothing to worry about."

The other voice is male, older and just as icy as Morgana herself.

"You're wrong. Don't underestimate Arthur. He'd do anything to protect his precious sorcerer. We're running out of time."

That means Merlin's time is probably limited as well. Grateful as he'd be to see Arthur riding into Ismere right now, preferably with a few dozen knights and a siege weapon or two, he'd be coming in blind, with Morgana waiting for him. He has to get himself out of here before Arthur gets within twenty miles of this place. Still with his eyes closed, he starts exploring carefully again, trying not to move too much while trying to work out what will move when he needs it to, and trying not to use his magic again until his head clears.

"Put aside your fears," the man says, and he doesn’t sound afraid of Morgana, which either means he’s an idiot or an ally. "Once we have what we seek, you will have all the power you need to defeat him."

Morgana doesn't sound very impressed with the man's pronouncement. "So you keep saying, yet you cannot tell me what it is." This sounds like a well-worn argument between them, and Merlin tries not to hold his breath. He can't afford to miss any of this.

"The Diamair will tell us. The Diamair is the key to all knowledge."

That's not a word from any language Merlin knows, although it sounds like it could be one of the lost druid tongues, perhaps? There are a few words in some of the older prophecies from that language, although none like this, he's sure of it. He's searching his memory so hard that he almost misses Morgana's next words, and he forces himself to listen, trying to memorise the conversation. Even his own breathing is starting to sound too loud, making him strain to hear.

"Then where is this key?"

"It is here, beneath your feet."

"For three months we've been searching and what have we found? Nothing."

"It is but a moment compared to the eternity of knowledge the key will bring."

"If I find that you've lied to me..."

"Patience is the stepping stone to wisdom, Morgana."

"You think I don't know that after all I've been through? For two long years, I saw nothing but darkness. Patience and I are old friends." Her voice is so low that Merlin almost can't catch the words. There's real pain in them, though, and a hint of a deep, dark anger that he doesn't think he wants to hear more of.

"Of course." That seems to be an apology, and in the brief silence that follows, Merlin starts to think that they must have left the room again. His careful exploration has got as far as his hands, which are twisted together underneath him, and when he flexes his wrists, he can feel something wrapped around them, cutting into his skin. Before he can work out what it is, the sound of voices much closer to him almost makes him jump.

"How do you intend to do this?"

"I haven't decided yet." There is a purr in Morgana's voice that made Merlin's hands clench instinctively, trying to keep his face impassive despite the sudden rush of fear. "There are just so many things I could do."

"We must not become distracted," the man says, a hint of disapproval in his voice. "Until we know more, there is still every chance we will choose the wrong path."

Morgana laughs, high and mocking. "Don't tell me you're squeamish, Ruadan." She pauses, and it isn't much of a stretch to imagine the smile on her face as she speaks. "Anyway, this is the great Emrys. I’m sure he’s more than capable of withstanding the worst I can do to him. Or not. Either way, aren’t you interested to know?"

Ruadan is a druidic name, making it harder and harder for Merlin to go on playing dead - or at least, unconscious. They've been hearing rumours for over a year now of Saxons and Southrons coming to Morgana's service, although the raiding parties disappeared again so quickly that they were impossible to verify. If the druid clans who have not joined with Camelot are going to take Morgana’s side instead, Camelot could be in serious trouble. 

"I am not interested in games, Morgana." Ruadan says and it takes a good deal of concentration for Merlin not to frown at that. "All I'm interested in is finding the Diamair."

"You have no imagination," Morgana says. There's a rustle of cloth, the faintest movement of air giving Merlin the second's warning he needs to relax completely, his hands uncurling just as Morgana strokes her fingers through his hair. It takes every ounce of concentration not to shudder. The touch is warm and familiar, almost friendly, and it frightens him to the roots of his being. As her hand moves down his back, he feels her magic tracing its path, skittering along the edge of his mind, first trying to stir him into awareness, then pressing against his senses, pushing him back towards the darkness.

It's hard to fight, especially with his head still aching and every breath pulling at the bruises on his ribs. Instinctively, he struggles against it, trying not to let her control him again, not knowing if giving into this will give her some kind of greater power over his mind. As before, his magic won’t respond as it should, just the effort of trying to produce a simple shield suddenly too much for him. Then Morgana’s hand reaches his side, pressing hard against his injured ribs and he gasps involuntarily, the sharp flare of pain making him want to roll away from the touch. Despite his sluggishness, he manages it, opening his eyes a crack as he does so, because there is no point in pretending any more.

He just about manages to focus on Morgana's face, her cruel smile and narrowed eyes.

"Hello, Merlin," she says, tilting her head a little. There’s a thoughtful air to her gaze as she looks at him that is just as bad as he’d feared. "What fun we’re going to have."

He’s still too dazed to form words anyway, and he has no chance to do so before she presses against him harder, fingers and magic both, and he is forced back down into the darkness.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)


	3. Vision

  
_It is a mistake to try to look too far ahead. The chain of destiny can only be grasped one link at a time._  
Sir Winston Churchill

Arthur smells the village before they reach it, and he’s fairly sure his horse does too from the way it tenses beneath him, shying a little when he urges it on. There’s no mistaking the smell of death.

It’s mingled with something that might be ashes, although when he rounds the corner and sees the village for the first time, he can’t see any smoke rising from anywhere now. The damp weather has probably put out any smouldering fires, and if this village follows the pattern of the others, the raiders were more interesting in grabbing their prisoners and slaughtering those they didn’t want. They weren’t trying to terrorise the people, just take them.

Somewhere behind the clouds, the sun is at its midday height, and it’s not that cold, despite the dampness, but still, Arthur shivers.

"See if there’s anyone left alive," he says, swinging from his horse and pulling his cloak off. This will be grim work, although he doesn't think they're far behind the raiders, which isn't necessarily a comforting thought. As he makes his way into the edge of the village, he beckons for Elyan to join him.

"Did you leave any men on the ridge?" When he gets an affirmative nod, he says, "tell them to stay where they are, then post sentries on the path in both directions. I don't want anyone sneaking up on us while we're working."

Elyan doesn't ask what work Arthur means. The knights know well enough that he won't leave these people like this, and it will take time to dig graves for this many. He'd spare them the labour, but it doesn't look like there's enough wood here to burn one body, let alone dozens.

Then again, maybe not.

The men are scattered now, cloaks off and heads bowed as they move amongst the dead.

"Sir Eric," he calls, wincing as the words echo from the rocky walls around them, making his voice sound far harsher than he'd intended.

"My Lord?" Eric is some distance away to his left, and Arthur has to fight back a flash of irritation that he knows is completely unreasonable as they make their way towards one another. It isn't Eric's fault that he isn't glued to Arthur's side like some annoying combination of a mother hen and an anxious child, giving him a constant running commentary on all the ways this could go horribly wrong. That's Merlin's job.

Once Eric is closer, Arthur opens to his mouth to speak, only to realise that he he's not entirely sure how to ask this of him. Normally, he'd make some sort of comment about this being a lot of work for the knights, or how it didn't seem fair for Merlin to just stand around while others have to do the work. Arthur never has to ask.

He clears his throat, looking away from Eric's wide, nervous eyes. "If we have to dig graves for them, it will take all afternoon, and there's not enough wood for pyres."

"No, sire." Eric sounds confused at first, as though wondering why Arthur would summon him to tell him something so obvious, but when Arthur turns to him with what he hopes is an expectant rather than impatient expression, understanding seems to dawn. "Oh," he says, glancing around the village. "Of course." He crouches, putting a hand on the ground consideringly, and Arthur sees gold flash in his eyes.

When he straightens up, shaking his head, Arthur feels momentarily disappointed and perhaps a little stupid. He's too used to having Merlin here, with his power and experience, and Arthur has to clench his jaw to stop himself from snapping. Since they set out towards Ismere, he's only let himself feel anger or irritation or this rolling frustration that seems to have settled in the pit of his stomach, because as long as he hangs onto those, they are enough to drive him forwards.

Obviously seeing his annoyance, Eric goes on, a little too quickly, "Sorry, sire, I just meant that the ground here is too hard. It would take me as long to dig a hole with magic as by hand. But if we build small pyres for them, I can make sure they burn long enough."

That makes sense. Even Arthur knows that the spell for fire is one of the simplest, and often the first sign that a child has magic. He nods, swallowing down his previous irritation, and says, "Get started. I want to be out of here as soon as we can."

He doesn't need to wait to see that his orders are carried out, and he doesn't want to stand here watching someone else do the job that Merlin should be doing.

_Arthur liked his room warm, but this was ridiculous. The curtains were drawn so tightly that not a chink of light showed through, and the room would have been plunged into darkness if it wasn’t for the blazing fire in the hearth. No doubt that was the reason it felt like the laundry on a summer’s day, rather than the royal chambers on a freezing December afternoon._

_As he came further into the room, wondering who on earth had thought this sort of temperature was a good idea, he saw a dark shape curled up in the shadows beside the fireplace. His hand went instinctively for the sword that wasn’t there, but fell away when the shape resolved itself into a person._

_"Gwen?"_

_"Shhhh."_

_Guinevere was sitting next to the hearthstone, her skirts spread around her like a blanket and her hands in her lap. As Arthur came closer, he saw that there was something else in her lap as well, and he raised an eyebrow at her, questioning._

_"Lord Brendog wouldn’t let him go after the council meeting," she whispered, her hands moving slowly. "He kept asking him questions, then someone from the druid delegation arrived, and after all the demonstrations this week." She shrugged, looking down. "I think he’s worn out."_

_Merlin was curled up on the floor, mostly on Guinevere’s skirts, his head cradled in her lap as her fingers carded through his hair. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he was frowning in his sleep, as though back in front of the court and having to explain for the hundredth time how he intended to keep Camelot safe if the ban on magic was lifted. It had been a long week for all of them, and it was common castle gossip there had been more than a few visitors to Gaius’ chambers in the middle of the night for conversations that couldn't be held in public. Not yet. What with one thing and another, Merlin probably hadn’t had much sleep this week._

_Even so, Arthur couldn’t help rolling his eyes. "I’m not surprised, but why are you letting him nap on our floor? And why is it so warm in here?"_

_"The floor’s cold," Guinevere said, ignoring his other question. "He lit the fire then just fell asleep. I don’t think it’ll go out again until he wakes up."_

_"Brilliant." Shaking his head, Arthur crouched down in front of them. "You know, I’m fairly sure I could make sleeping in the king’s chambers without permission a treasonable offence if I wanted."_

_"Don’t be mean." Finally looking up at him, Guinevere gave him a somewhat wry smile. "Although I have to admit, my feet went to sleep about an hour ago."_

_"Right. He may as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, I suppose," Arthur said, shaking his head when Guinevere frowned at him. "Come on, if you don’t stand up soon you won’t be able to, and he’d be better off in a bed anyway."_

_Between them, and despite Guinevere’s wince as she stood up, they managed to get Merlin up from the floor, more or less without his cooperation. He stirred a little when Arthur hefted him bodily onto the bed, and again when Guinevere pulled off his boots, but once ensconced amongst the blankets, he settled again, rolling over to wrap his arms around a pillow._

_"Remind me to have someone burn that after he’s drooled all over it," Arthur said, and then rubbed his arm pointedly when Guinevere hit him. "What?"_

_"You’re working him too hard, and so is Gaius," she told him, leaning into him when he put an arm around her shoulder. "Sorcerer or not, he’s only human."_

_"I know. We’ll give him a few hours now, but I’ll need him again at the feast tonight. No," he added, when she opened her mouth, no doubt to argue. "He has to be there. If this is going to work, the people need to see that the kingdom and magic stand together. We will all need to make sacrifices to get this done."_

_"And what exactly are you sacrificing?" she asked, a little pointedly, but when he looked down, there was the hint of a smile around her lips._

_He sniffed, doing his best to look put upon even as he smiled back. "Well," he said, gesturing to the bed. "there’s my pillow for a start."_

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

As he turns away, his eyes fall on the narrow slits in the cliff face that must lead to deeper caves. Making up his mind quickly, he starts to stride towards them, passing a few groups of knights who nod respectfully as he passes. On the very edge of the houses, he finds Gwaine outside a small hut, sweating hard under his mail, although it's a cold day.

"Where are you off to?" Gwaine asks, wiping his forehead.

Arthur gestures towards the caves. "Up there. If there are any survivors, that's where they'll be."

There's movement in the doorway of the house, and Percival emerges, carrying what looks like a bundle of clothes in his arms. He hesitates when he sees Arthur, and then shakes his head a fraction.

"Survivors, eh?" Gwaine says, leaning against the wall of the hut and watching Arthur with narrowed eyes.

Looking away, Arthur moves so that Percival can pass him. "Help the others to start building pyres. Eric is going to make sure they burn long enough," he adds, seeing Percival's hesitation.

He gets a nod in reply, and then Percival is gone, with a final look at Gwaine that Arthur can't interpret.

"Reckon I'd better come with you," Gwaine says, falling into step as Arthur sets out again. "Don't want you startling any of these mythical survivors into attacking you, do we?"

"What are you going to do if they do attack me?" Irritated, Arthur speeds up a little, pretending not to notice that Gwaine is keeping up easily. "Run them through and finish the job the raiders started?"

"Arthur." They're stepping around scattered boulders at the foot of the cliff now, and Gwaine jumps over the next one quickly, before turning to block Arthur's path. "You're not the only one worried about him, okay? And you do need someone to watch your back."

The really annoying thing is that Gwaine is right. The fingers of Arthur's right hand have been twitching since they got to this place, half-hoping that they do find some stragglers from the raiding party so that he can take out some of the frustration that's coursing through his veins and making his skin itch.

Carefully, Gwaine takes another step towards him, standing close enough that Arthur can see the lines at the corners of his eyes creased in concern.

He has to look away.

"Come on then," he says, stepping around Gwaine and keeping his eyes fixed on the gash in the rock face. "Try to keep up."

The cave is damp and dank, full of the smell of stale air, heavy with mould and the bodies of the few people who’d made it this far. Gwaine stoops to check on them as Arthur makes his way deeper, finding himself in a soaring cavern which is lit by a fissure high up in the rock. There’s light filtering in, watery and weak, just enough to see the low pool cut from the rock and the man lying by its side.

Most of the bodies in the village are limp, with only a few still holding the stiffness that comes soon after death, so Arthur isn’t surprised that the man is half-hanging over the side of the pool, one hand dangling towards the floor and the other draped over his chest. Unlike so many of the twisted, terrified corpses they’ve seen, this man looks like he might just be asleep. Arthur leans over him a little, relieved that the man’s eyes are closed, and he’s just lifted his head to call Gwaine over to help him, when a strong, cold hand grips his wrist.

The shock is so great that Arthur can’t even find his voice to shout for help, but he jerks back reflexively when the man’s eyes open and look straight into his, wide and open and shining gold.

"King Arthur," he whispers, and despite himself, despite the trembling in his arms and the shivers of alarm down his back, Arthur leans in closer.

"What happened to you? Who did this to your village?" He keeps his own voice low, not wanting to alert Gwaine just yet. The man is obviously dying, and he knows who Arthur is, and Arthur has seen enough over the past three years to know that this cannot be a coincidence.

The man gasps, pulling Arthur closer. "That it happened at all is all that matters. I have been haunted by this moment for many years... since long before you set foot on this Earth. I have waited for its arrival with sorrow in my heart." His next breath is little more than a shallow rasp, sounding strained and painful. However laboured his breathing, his grip on Arthur’s wrist is like iron, unyielding and so cold that it feels like it’s burning his skin. "For even as Camelot flowers, so the seeds of her destruction are being sown."

Whatever Arthur felt at first, it’s washed away the numbness that spreads through him now, gripping his heart until he thinks it might stop beating.

"Unless you act quickly, Emrys’ doom will come upon him like a ghost in the night, and even you will not be able to alter the never-ending circle of his...fate."

The release of pressure is almost as shocking as the first touch had been, and Arthur starts, almost falling over backwards as the man takes a last breath, the sound of it scraping across Arthur’s soul. All he can do is stare as the man’s eyes close, the hand that had been holding onto Arthur falling away and into the pool, sending out ripples across the still water. He realises he’s breathing hard, and he has to force himself to calm down, running his eyes over the man’s face for any lingering signs of life. There’s nothing, just slack features and a drawn, gaunt look that speaks of a hard life even before it came to this.

His eyes are drawn down the man’s arm, as wiry and pale as the rest of him, until he sees something that makes him frown. A symbol on the man’s wrist, the recognisable Druid spiral with something else over it, a light swirl in yellow that looks like it has faded from something much brighter. He’s actually reached out to take the man’s hand for a better look when he sees movement out of the corner of his eye, something darting across the surface of the water. Turning his head a little, he tries to focus on it, wondering if it was just the reflection of the light streaming in from above him. Then he hears a rushing sound, filling his ears and his mind and making him so dizzy for a moment that he has to close his eyes.

He opens them again to a scene of utter devastation. It’s a battlefield, although it looks as though the battle is almost done. Bodies are lying everywhere, scattered beneath a blood red sky, and the air is full of the moans of the dying. Arthur has a sword in his hand, his sword, he realises as he looks down, feeling as familiar and perfect as it always does. It moves not entirely of his own volition, blocking a blow from a man he hadn’t seen approaching. His attacker is young, with pale eyes beneath a shock of dark hair, and he is looking at Arthur with such a mixture of pain and anger that Arthur is momentarily stunned.

It’s a moment’s mistake, and it costs him. The other man swings his sword down again, with apparent slowness that Arthur knows is his mind playing tricks on him, the world slowing to a crawl as the man’s sword comes inexorably towards him in a motion that Arthur knows he will not be able to stop.

"Arthur! No!"

The words are not so much shouted as screamed, a howl of raw anguish that seems to startle his attacker as much as it does Arthur. He has just enough time to think that even so, he will not escape the blow coming towards him, when there is a flash of light so bright, is completely blinded. Closing his eyes doesn’t help, the light searing through his eyelids, hot on his face as he tries to turn away. He knows there’s no escape from it, though; he’s felt this before.

It feels like a long time until the light fades enough for Arthur to open his eyes, and he blinks the tears out of his vision, already searching for Merlin even though his whole face is burning with the aftermath of the display of sheer power. The battlefield is still all around him, the sky is still that unearthly red, but there is no sign of the man who tried to - no, was going to - kill him.

There isn’t even a body. It’s as though the man has just been wiped from the face of the earth, like he was never there. Even in his worry, Arthur frowns, because this isn't how he remembers the power from last time. Back then, they had been running for their lives through the forest just outside Ealdor, and Arthur's memories of that night are as vivid as the vision before him. It had been the first real test between them, Arthur knowing for sure that he could rely on Merlin’s magic, Merlin unafraid to use his powers openly at last.

This is nothing like that. When he finally sees Merlin, his breath catches in his throat. The air around him is crackling with power, as though something terrible has been released that even Merlin cannot contain. Their eyes meet and time stretches, letting Arthur see the fear in Merlin’s face, the moment when the power overtakes him again and the final, agonising second when something truly inhuman passes through him.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

"Is he alive?"

Arthur looks up, blinking in what feels like sudden darkness. The cave is dimly lit compared to the battlefield in his vision, and he has to concentrate to focus on Gwaine, who is looking at him as though not quite sure what answer to expect. Unable to speak at first, Arthur just shakes his head and looks away, back down at the strange symbol on the man’s wrist.

"Have you seen anything like this before?" His voice is raspy in his own ears, but steady enough for now. Gwaine comes over to look, and Arthur steps away, rubbing his wrist absently where it still feels cold.

"Looks like some kind of druid sign," Gwaine says, shrugging. "Not seen one quite like it, though."

"Nor have I." There’s more of a chill in the air now, although Arthur supposes that might just be him. "I’ll ask Aeldred when we see him. Come on, help me get him out of here."

Outside, the first of the fires is already lit, smoke curling up against the solid white of the sky. Beside it, Eric is standing with his hand outstretched and his eyes glowing gold, his expression tight and strained. Leon has a hand on his shoulder, part support, part comfort, Arthur thinks, and is grateful for it. It should be him over there, overseeing, but he can’t trust himself not to say something that will remind everyone of Merlin’s absence, and that’s not fair to Eric. Instead, he helps Gwaine and Percival to stack wood for the next pyre, placing the bodies on top as carefully as he can, closing wide eyes and straightening twisted limbs. They can’t give these people much, but they can give them a little dignity in death.

By the time the fires are finished and the ashes raked and buried, the whole valley smells of the smoke, even though Eric has called up a gentle wind to disperse the worst of it. Arthur nods when Leon gives him a questioning look, leading the way back to where Elyan has the horses, safely upwind of the pyres and smoke. He’s grateful for his cloak, and for being able to lose himself in the temporary bustle of everyone around him, all swinging onto their horses, red cloth fluttering in the breeze. It’s a return to normality, riding away from the devastated village towards Annis’ castle, and Arthur needs some normality right now.

Every time he closes his eyes, even just to blink, he sees Merlin’s terrified, transfixed face, his mouth open in a soundless cry, and he has no idea how he’s going to sleep tonight.

~

When they reach the rendezvous point where Aeldred and his men are to meet them, there is only one anxious druid boy waiting, twisting the hem of his cloak in his hands. He bows as Arthur dismounts, and makes a visible effort to calm himself.

"What’s happened?" Arthur asks, not wanting to waste time.

"Please, sire, there has been a raid on the northern border, near Dalferth."

Frowning a little, Arthur asks, "How do you know?"

"The dragon, my lord."

Great. Between Merlin and Kilgharrah, it’s amazing that Arthur is ever allowed to rule his own kingdom really. "And, of course, Aeldred and his men were the closest source of help. No, it’s not your fault," he says when the boy tries to stammer out an apology. "They did the right thing." That doesn’t make it any less frustrating when he really needs to speak to Aeldred.

The boy manages to give his story to Leon, who comes up to join Arthur, looking worried.

"We’ll camp here for the night," Arthur tells him. "See that everyone gets some food, then I want an outrider to send to Annis, let her know of the attack on the village. It was recent enough that the raiders may still be in her kingdom."

"I can do that, sire," the druid boy says, straightening up a little under Arthur’s sceptical look. "I can look after myself, I swear."

He probably can, and is almost certainly better equipped to deal with a night time ambush than most of the knights, for all that he looks about half their age. Aeldred chooses for skill, not looks.

"Very well." The look of pride and relief on the boy’s face makes Arthur smile a little, despite the grimness of his message. "Tell her that the village in the middle of the gorge on her Eastern border has been attacked. Everyone is dead, and we cannot tell whether or not they took prisoners. Wait for us there. If Aeldred is occupied further north, I will want you to come with us to Ismere."

"Yes, my lord." The boy practically falls over his own feet as he tries to bow, turn around and run for his horse all at the same time. Arthur exchanges an amused look with Leon, shrugging a little.

"It’s not like Merlin’s much more coordinated than that," he says. He’s forcing himself to say Merlin’s name, to not let himself think the worst yet. As long as he doesn’t think it, then Merlin can still be alive. He has to believe that.

He hears some of the others doing the same as they set up camp, as though they are trying to summon Merlin to them just by saying his name. It’s something of a comfort, even as it tears at Arthur, and he picks himself a spot as close to the edge of their camp as the others will allow. While Elyan and Percival tease Eric into helping with the cooking, Gwaine comes and drops onto Arthur’s bedroll, apparently making himself comfortable. Arthur ignores him.

"So are you going to tell me what happened back there?" Gwaine says companionably after a while.

"You saw as much as I did."

"Right. And I’m the next High Priestess of the Old Religion."

Arthur turns a little, looking Gwaine up and down. "I don’t think so. You’d never fit into Morgana’s dresses."

"Bet I'd look better in them than she does, though." Gwaine shakes his head. "Don’t make me ask Leon to ask you. You know how he gets, all earnest and sincere and worried. If he thinks something’s wrong, you know he won’t let it go."

"Unlike you." Blowing out a long breath, Arthur shakes his head. "I really don’t know, Gwaine. I saw..." He doesn’t know how to describe it, even though he’d thought of little else on the long afternoon ride. "I don’t know what I saw."

"But it scares you." For all his bluster and outward charm, there’s a sharpness to Gwaine that makes Arthur uncomfortable lying to him. He’s not even sure he can. "It scares you more than Morgana, doesn’t it? More than what she might be doing to Merlin."

"Yes."

This time, it’s Gwaine who huffs, shaking his head. "Then you need to work out whatever it was, and fast."

"I was going to ask Aeldred." The frustration hits Arthur again, irritated that he’s missed this chance. "It could be days before he can join us, if he comes at all."

"True." Something in Gwaine’s tone makes Arthur look around, and he sees the knowing look on the other man’s face. "But we both know there’s someone who could get here a lot faster than that."

A few hours later, it’s fully dark and Arthur takes a moment to reflect that it’s still really, really annoying when Gwaine’s right. He’s climbed the hill overlooking the camp, which is steeper than it looks from the ground and has him puffing by the time he reaches the top. He takes a minute to get his breath back, pulling his sword from its scabbard.

He’s only done this a few times, and he’s still not entirely sure how it works, or even if it will. Merlin’s eyes glaze over a little whenever he tries to explain, which either means they’re straying into deeper magic than he can explain to a non-sorcerer or he doesn’t understand it either. Arthur suspects the latter, but it doesn’t really matter either way.

Slowly, he lifts the sword higher, moonlight glinting from the fine metalwork. Guinevere told him that while the work on the hilt is her father's, the rest - the inlay on the blade and the etched runes - were not there when she gave Merlin the sword. Neither of he nor Guinevere can read runes, but Gaius told Arthur that one side says _Take me up_ , the other _cast me aside._ He can't imagine ever wanting to cast aside a weapon like this with its perfect balance and weight that feels like part of his body when he wields it, more than just an extension of his arm. It's like an extension of his being.

He turns it so the blade points to the earth and puts both hands on the hilt, readying himself. Then he drives it into the ground as deep as he can. It sinks to almost half the depth of the blade, and at the back of his mind, Arthur has a brief worry that he won't be able to get it out again. On the other hand, he had no trouble pulling it from a stone in the first place, so he supposes it will come back to him from the earth as well.

The important thing is that the tip of the inlay on the blade is in the ground, touching the earth as it's supposed to. Arthur rests both hands on the pommel, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. This is where it could all go horribly wrong.

In the middle of an argument that they'd both forgotten the point of, and which descended as usual into random name calling and insults, Merlin told Arthur that he really couldn't understand this because he was practically the opposite of magical. That brought them both up short, Merlin looking more than a little embarrassed, while Arthur had just narrowed his eyes and asked him exactly what that was supposed to mean. He never did find out, but he thought he understood anyway. In general, he is immune to the sense of foreboding or oppressive atmosphere that Merlin claims he can practically taste in the air when he's around magic. The one thing Arthur isn't immune to is the dragon.

He knows the words to say, although on his tongue they hold none of the power that they do when Merlin speaks them. When Merlin summons Kilgharrah, his voice seems to rise from the depths of the earth itself, a low, powerful growl that's almost uncomfortable to listen to. There is no way Arthur can do the same, even if he wanted to, so he bows his head and whispers them instead, trying to focus on the sword under his hands which connects him to the earth, his only way of accessing the power that Merlin always says is his to command.

With his eyes closed, Arthur makes himself focus on an image of the dragon, using it to guide his thoughts in something close to meditation. The first image that comes into his mind is not Kilgharrah himself, but an outline in gold against a red background. He knows it instantly, pulling it into sharper focus and letting his mind's eye trace the elegantly embroidered lines, the shape that is so familiar and new again, seeing it like this. Guinevere gave the cloak to him for their second wedding anniversary, the cloth a rich, deep red and the outline of the dragon embroidered with her own hands. He misses her with an almost physical ache, and the surge of longing lends power to the image, so that the dragon seems to glow brightly, as though drawn in fire.

Despite what Merlin always says, Arthur does listen when these things are explained to him, and he knows that the only reason this can work is that he has command of both the land and the dragons, both granted to him by Merlin, but no less real for that. It works, for which he's grateful, but he wishes he could feel even half of what Merlin seems to in these moments. That might take away some of the lingering doubt that he's just a man on a hill, leaning on his sword and whispering meaningless words to the night air.

The sound is on the very edge of his hearing, distant and faint, but absolutely recognisable. Smiling to himself, Arthur opens his eyes and pulls his sword from the ground, sheathing it before Kilgharrah lands a little way off.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

"My Lord," the dragon says once Arthur is closer, giving him that incline of the head that always seems to Arthur halfway between respect and insolence. He probably learned it from Merlin.

"Kilgharrah." Now that he's here, Arthur feels a little awkward. All he really has is a strange vision from a dying man, with no reason to think it's anything but the product of a confused mind.

Something in his voice must give him away, because the dragon narrows his huge eyes a little. "I do not think you summoned me all the way here in the middle of the night for us to stare at each other, sire."

Clearing his throat a little, Arthur decides to start with something easier. "What do you know of druid symbols? A dark spiral with some kind of yellow coil though it."

Kilgharrah takes a deep enough breath that it ruffles Arthur's hair. "That is the mark of a Vatis, a druid seer. Where did you see it?"

"On a dead body." Arthur hesitates then adds, "He showed me something. A vision, I think."

"The Vatis' power of prophecy is unrivalled, even by a high priestess." Kilgharrah tilts his head a little. "What did he show you?"

Arthur makes himself answer, even though the words are sticking in his throat. "He showed me something, a vision of a battle. Someone was about to kill me, and Merlin-" He shakes his head, not knowing how to put words around that awful moment when the world turned white. "I've never seen him use power like that. It was like it consumed him."

The silence is not comforting. After what feels like hours, Kilgharrah says slowly, "It has always been a danger for one as powerful as Merlin. To be as powerful as he is, to choose to command the forces that he does, he opens himself to the possibility that they will command him."

"What does that mean?"

"Imagine what would happen if he were taken over by the powers that he wields, with none of his humanity to guide him." Kilgharrah shakes his head. "And it could be worse even than that."

"Of course." Because nothing just plain bad ever happened to Merlin. There was always something worse.

"You do not understand, Arthur," Kilgharrah said, and that made Arthur pay attention. The dragon almost never used his name. "How much has Merlin told you of his powers?"

Arthur has seen him do everything from divert a raging river to heal a dying bird, but in the last three years, he hasn't really learned anything about them that he didn't know the first time he saw - really saw - Merlin use them openly.

_There was no way forwards, not with this many men to fight at once. All Arthur could do was keep swinging his sword with one hand, the flaming torch with the other and hope it would hold them back for the moment. A crash behind him almost made him turn, but he knows that would be suicide at this point. He asked Merlin to watch his back, and despite all the new things he's learned about Merlin - about the magic and the dragons and the lies - he had no doubts about his loyalty._

_He knew the trust was rightly placed when he took half a step backwards and felt someone behind him, their back to his, solid and supporting. A second later, he heard a ripple of cries going through the forest, even as two men came at him in a particularly ferocious attack._

_"It's not enough," he called over his shoulder, trying to fend off them both with his sword until he could get the torch to bear. "There's too many of them." As if proving his point, he half-stumbled backwards to avoid a wild swing and would have fallen if it hadn't been for Merlin, supporting his weight for a vital second before pushing him back to his feet._

_"We need help," Merlin called back, sounding as breathless as Arthur felt._

_"It would also help if we could see what we were doing." With one of his attackers lying on the ground, the other had apparently decided to pull away a little, waiting for his next opening. Arthur made a point of swinging the flaming torch in a wide arc, hoping to hold him off and get his bearings back._

_"I can give you light." If there were as many men behind as in front, Arthur knew they'd be overrun in minutes unless they did something drastic. He supposed magic probably came under that description. However strange it felt, it also felt right, and he found himself grinning as Merlin went on, "How much do you want?"_

_"You know me, Merlin," he said, knowing that his smile had to be at least a little unnerving for his attackers. "I'm not fussy."_

_There was something that might have been a disbelieving snort from behind him and pressed close as they were, Arthur felt Merlin straighten a little, his back stiff, presumably getting ready to do whatever it was he was going to do._

_He was very grateful for the early warning, because it meant that when Merlin's voice echoed in his head, he didn't jump out of his skin or drop the torch, although the latter was a close run thing._

__"Get ready to cover your eyes," _he said, sounding a little strained._ "In five. __

_It was going to be tricky. If he shut his eyes too early, one of the men he was currently fending off was bound to get in a lucky hit. If he left it too late? Well. He knew that Merlin could light fires and speak to dragons. Further than that, they hadn't really had the chance to ask. But he was sure that if Merlin said he needed to do something as dangerous as shutting his eyes when there were a few dozen men with swords coming at him, then he really, really needed to shut his eyes._

_He'd been counting down mentally since Merlin's warning, but he almost left it too late, dropping the torch as he heard Merlin shouting something in that strange language, and throwing his arm over his face._

_Even with the protection, the light was almost blinding, and he felt his eyes start to water under his eyelids. He didn't even want to think what it was doing to anyone with their eyes open._

They'd made it out alive thanks to Merlin that night, and whenever Arthur thinks of Merlin's magic, this is the memory that comes first to his mind.

He frowns up at Kilgharrah. "He doesn't need to tell me anything. I already know what he can do."

"No, you do not." Shifting a little, Kilgharrah settles himself on the grass, and Arthur prepares himself for one of his longer lessons. "Merlin is a creature of the old religion. He may not follow all its ways, but the magic and the power of the old religion courses through him as surely as blood in his veins. And just as power is useless without a hand to wield it, all creatures of magic can be made susceptible to the will of another."

"Like dragons," Arthur says slowly, trying to understand.

"Indeed. We are subject to the call of the dragonlords, their control over magic giving them control over us. And a creature of pure magic would be subject to anyone with enough skill to command them."

This isn’t making sense. "But Merlin's human."

"Merlin is a human vessel for the magic, with his own will that allows him to control the powers he has been granted. It is a delicate balance, calling on such powers as he does, and he runs the constant risk that they will become too much for him, and that everything that makes him human will become burned away."

Arthur remembers the vision of the battle field, the terrible, terrified way that Merlin screamed his name, and the blinding flash of light that seemed to come from within him. And he knows now what he saw.

He brings himself back to the present to hear Kilgharrah say, "Without those things, he would become simply a conduit for the magic, as helpless as I am before him, and the Merlin that you know would be gone forever."

"Helpless to whom?" There is a sinking feeling in Arthur's stomach that tells him he already knows the answer.

"It would take a very powerful sorcerer to control powers such as his."

"Like a high priestess." 

Kilgharrah's silence is enough of an answer. After a long moment, he says, "As long as he remains Merlin, he will remain in control of these powers, and Morgana will not be able to influence him."

"No." This isn’t right. "In my vision, there was a battlefield. It wasn’t Ismere, I’m sure of it."

"Then there may still be time." There is a flicker of hope in Kilgharrah’s voice, which lets Arthur breathe again. "You must find whatever it is that creates Merlin’s loss of control and prevent it coming to pass, Arthur, or you risk losing him, and dooming Albion forever."

Great, Arthur thinks as he watches Kilgharrah’s dark shape disappear into the night. All he has to do is try not to get into a battle against the mysterious, dark haired man, and if he does, try not to get himself nearly killed. Of course, what he has to do first is get Merlin away from Morgana, before she figures any of this out for herself. He’s not naive enough to think that she might not discover it; he assumes that if one seer can have this vision, so can another. But he has to hope that this time, at least, he’s one step ahead on her.

~

It’s dark when Merlin wakes again, shivering in the cold, although this time, the movement doesn’t seem to be hurting his ribs. The thought makes him shiver harder, not wanting to think about what else Morgana could have done to him while he slept. His hands are still twisted underneath him uncomfortably, and he manages to roll over onto his back, hissing in a breath. He hadn't thought he could get much colder, but the air is freezing against his exposed skin. When he looks down, he sees a thin silver chain winding around each wrist, holding them together tightly in front of him, and he can’t help but groan. He knows that chain, and knows from experience that any attempt to loosen it with magic will just make it pull tighter. If he tries too hard, he doesn’t doubt that it could cut straight through his wrists.

His head is still a little sore, so without really thinking about it, he closes his eyes and whispers, _"Lǣd tha pinnesse,"_ expecting a wash of relief to pour over him. Instead, he feels that odd, itching sensation again, burning him this time, making him squirm and gasp a little, squeezing his eyes shut against the urge to tear at his own skin, to somehow get rid of the terrible heat. He manages to sit up, leaning against the bars behind him, which suddenly feel wonderfully cool against his fevered back, even through his tunic. 

As the sensations die away, he opens his eyes a little blearily, trying to get his bearings. He’d seen the bars last time he awoke, and now he can get a better look at them, he can see that they don’t quite match. The ones to his right and left are the same, rising more than high enough for him to stand, if that was something he could do at the moment, and meeting directly above him like the ribcage of some great beast. They look like they might once have been a pair of fine iron gates, twisted with sheer brute force to make the sides and top of the cage. In front of him, the bars are thicker and not as well made, not all of them matching, more like someone had taken whatever scrap metal they could find and used the same force that had twisted the gates to make them into bars. The wood beneath him seems to be from the top of a table.

Turning a little, Merlin runs his bound hands over the join between the wood and the metal. The bars go straight through, and when he leans against them, pressing gently at first, then with all of his weight, they don’t move at all, not even enough to get a grain of barley between metal and wood. He can’t get his head through the gaps between the bars, but he doesn’t doubt that they are driven all the way down into the stones of the hall floor. It’s an astonishing display of power. 

He settles with his back to the bars again, trying to reassess. His hands hurt both from the chain and no doubt from lying on them for so long, and he flexes his fingers carefully, trying to restore the circulation without straining against them too hard. The slow, careful movements are good for his brain as well as his hands, helping him focus and concentrate and washing away the last of the drowsiness, even if there is still a gentle buzz at the back of his mind that he can’t quite get rid of. 

It’s only when he shifts again, searching for a way to sit that doesn’t have a bar pressing uncomfortably into his shoulder blade, that the wood scrapes against his leg and he feels the slow, cold creep of realisation. Rising onto his knees, he presses his hands onto the wood, sending out just the gentlest tendril of magic, nothing more than a harmless exploration of his surroundings. 

The burning comes faster this time, making his elbows buckle so that he almost pitches face-first onto the floor. He rests his head on his hands until it passes, trying to breathe through it rather than fight. It’s not pain exactly, although it does hurt. It’s more like someone has taken a wire brush to his skin, leaving it raw and itching and with a discomfort so deep he thinks it might never pass. 

It does, eventually, and he sits up again, trying to think. The wooden floor makes sense now. Merlin has always drawn his magic from the world around him, as much as from within himself. But this cage is imbued with someone else’s power, made with sheer force and drenched in their will. 

Shaking a little from the cold and from the aftermath of the burning under his skin, he sits back down in the middle of the cage, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, not caring that the stretch makes the chain dig into his wrists, his mind racing. Because he’s felt this power before, when Morgana took Camelot. She poured herself into the castle, making it her place of power, and her hold was only broken when Arthur used his sword to smash the throne, the focal point for her will. 

Idly, Merlin wonders if next time he sets out on some foolish quest alone, he should ask Arthur if he can borrow the sword. On the downside, if he had done, then it would now be in Morgana’s possession, and he doesn’t even want to think what she might do with it. He thinks that if it comes to it, he can bear the pain of using his magic, if it means escaping whatever Morgana has in mind for him. 

Slowly, he closes his eyes and lowers his forehead onto his raised knees, trying to keep as warm as possible, while letting as little of himself as possible touch the cage around him. Something will happen eventually, either Morgana tiring of waiting, or Arthur arriving in a no doubt recklessly brave manner to rescue him. Either way, it could be a long wait.


	4. Camelot

  
_The opposite of talking isn't listening. The opposite of talking is waiting._  
Fran Lebowitz

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

The council will meet today, of course. What should it matter that the king and the court sorcerer and half the knights won’t be able to attend? There are still decisions to be made, petitions to be heard, petty squabbles to be smoothed over. Worst of all, it looks like it’s going to be a bright, sunny winter’s day after the weeks of grey cloud that have covered the sky, if the light streaming through the gap in the curtains is anything to go by. This is the sort of day when she would much rather be out inspecting the new houses being built in the lower town, or just taking a ride with Arthur or Elyan or even Gwaine, rather than sitting in a stuffy hall listening to the great and the good of the land squabble like children.

Mumbling a little to herself in complaint, Guinevere rolls over in bed, trying to get out of the beam of sunlight. She always tries to sleep in the middle of the bed when Arthur is away, as though reducing the empty space by her side will somehow make her forget how much she hates this. 

It doesn’t help that Sefa is always quiet in the mornings, creeping into the room as though she doesn’t want to wake Guinevere, even though that’s technically her job. To be fair, both Guinevere and Arthur mostly wake themselves these days, which she really wishes was so they could have a few minutes alone before assorted castle staff make an assault on their chambers. More often, it’s so that Arthur can read through the papers that he failed to finish last night, or she can make sure he eats something before Merlin barges into the room and drags him away to who knows what. The years before they were married were hard, painful in places, but in some ways, much simpler. 

She can’t regret it though, even as Sefa creeps towards the bed, and Guinevere has to resist the urge to open her eyes quickly, just to make the girl jump. It wouldn’t be fair, really. Considering how quickly she’s had to learn everything, Sefa is coping well. Guinevere just wishes she wasn’t so serious all the time.

"My lady?" Sefa puts a tentative hand on Guinevere’s shoulder. "My lady, the first bell will ring soon. You asked me to wake you."

Forcing herself to stir, Guinevere nods, then opens her eyes. "I’m awake, Sefa. It’s alright."

"I’ve brought your water up."

"Thank you."

Curtseying, Sefa disappears as quietly as she had arrived, no doubt to bring some breakfast, leaving Guinevere to rise and bathe alone, as she prefers. Queen or not, there are some things she does not need help with. Besides, her own independence gives her something to tease Arthur with, even if he is not nearly as helpless as he thinks. Nevertheless, independent or not, she will still need Sefa’s help later with her laces and stays, and to make sure the last of the tangles are teased out of her hair. 

Guinevere had been right about breakfast, and she is pulling on a robe over her petticoats when Sefa returns with a tray, setting it on the table before going to the wardrobe and selecting an appropriate dress for the council meeting. She is even more quiet than usual, and Guinevere watches her move slowly around the room, as though half-dazed or still mostly asleep. 

"Have you eaten this morning?" she asks, frowning when Sefa jumps a little. 

"My lady?"

"You should eat. I will not have you telling your people that we do not feed our servants in Camelot." Guinevere gestures to the seat next to hers at the table. For a moment, Sefa looks almost distraught, caught in some kind of panic that goes far beyond a good servant’s natural reticence. Then, as quickly as it came, the look disappears from her face, and she smiles a little, coming to take the offered chair. 

"Thank you, your highness."

She toys with a bread roll for a while, turning it in her fingers, and then tearing a small piece from it that she places next to her plate. Only then does she take a tentative bite, as though not entirely sure the bread will be edible, or if she is allowed to eat it.

Guinevere waits until half the roll has disappeared, eating her own in what she hopes is comfortable silence. Only when she is sure that Sefa is not going to stop eating in terror does she says, "I’ve seen other druids doing that." She nods to the small piece of bread on Sefa’s plate. "Is it a common practice?"

This time, Sefa keeps her surprise to just a slight widening of her eyes as she looks up at Guinevere. "Yes, my lady, amongst my people at least. It is a sign of thankfulness, that we have enough to eat and can give something back to the land that has given it to us."

"That’s a lovely idea," Guinevere says, intrigued. 

"Normally, we would place it on the ground, to return to the soil." Sefa is warming to her subject now, the first signs of colour in her cheeks. "But here, I just leave it on my plate, to be thrown out with the rest of the scraps. Either the animals will eat it, or it will go for the compost in the kitchen garden. Nothing is wasted, and everything will be back where it should be." She flushes properly now, as though embarrassed at saying too much.

"That sounds very respectful," Guinevere says. There is still so little that she knows about druid life, that every little piece she can get adds to her store of knowledge. She never knows when these things might be useful. "Thank you for telling me." When Sefa still looks a little uncomfortable, she adds, "I like to know these things, Sefa. Everything we learn about each other is a chance not to repeat the mistakes of the past."

There’s a real intensity in the look Sefa gives her, more direct than Guinevere can remember receiving from the girl before, and it feels oddly like an examination, almost a test, as though trying to work out if Guinevere really means what she says. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she looks away again, finishing her bread before standing and dropping a handful of crumbs onto her plate. 

"Thank you, my lady," she says, in an odd, grave tone that Guinevere doesn’t remember hearing from her before. "What dress would you like to wear for the council meeting today?"

They settle on the purple, which is as practical as Guinevere’s clothing gets these days, even if it does take ten minutes of laces and ties to get her into it, and another twenty for Sefa to stop fussing with her hair. It’s done mostly in silence, as though Sefa is working without conscious thought, straightening a ruffled hem and tucking a loose lock of hair back into its band. When she comes to stand in front of Guinevere, frowning a little at something only she can see, the circles under her eyes seem more pronounced, dark against her fair skin. Remembering how late it had been last night when she saw Sefa slip from the city, Guinevere doesn’t comment, although she does wonder if the girl would have said so much over breakfast if she hadn’t been so tired.

Eventually, Sefa seems satisfied that everything is in place, and she steps away with a smile and a curtsey, obviously making ready to leave.

Guinevere raises an eyebrow. "Aren’t you forgetting something?" There’s nothing but confusion on Sefa’s face, so she adds, "My papers for the council."

"Of course." They are in a neat pile on the corner of the table, and Sefa hands them over with a contrite smile. "Sorry, my lady."

"It’s all right." Wondering how far she can push their new-found confidence, Guinevere says, "I saw you leave the citadel last night."

This time, there is true panic in Sefa’s expression, hidden quickly, but definitely there. It seems too much for someone who had already admitted they had a lover outside the castle, and Guinevere files it away in the back of her mind, something about it making her uneasy. 

Aloud, she says, "I know I’m the queen, Sefa, but you don’t have to hide your secrets from me."

"My lady?" There is far too much calculated innocence in the words, making Guinevere’s heart sink. However far she thought she had got with Sefa this morning, clearly it is not yet far enough for this. No matter. 

"Whoever he is, he’s lucky to have you," she says breezily, giving Sefa an easy way out. "Even if it does make the mornings hard work."

"Thank you, my lady." The relief in her voice is far too much just for a servant being forgiven a late night tryst. Guinevere watches Sefa’s eyes as she says, "There are so many things to remember." Which changes the subject neatly and completely.

"I know that better than anyone," Guinevere says, putting them back on their cautiously friendly footing. "You’re doing well, honestly."

"Thank you, my lady."

She curtseys as Guinevere leaves, following her at a respectful distance, not intruding but making it clear that she is there if Guinevere needs her. It’s just what a good servant should do, so there is no reason at all for the uncomfortable nerves in Guinevere's stomach, or the odd prickling at the back of her neck that make her feel like she is being watched. No reason at all.

~

Council meetings are rarely gripping, and they have become even duller since Arthur forced Merlin to join them, rather than just standing in the corner of the room, pulling increasingly bored, then silly, faces. With neither of them to share her frustration or amusement or concern, Guinevere has to admit that even she is growing a little bored.

"Lastly," Geoffrey says, apparently not aware of the relieved expressions around him, "we have had word from the druid clan at , who are willing to accept our offer of opening treaty negotiations."

There is a slight stir around the table at that, some of the noble lords glancing at each other, some exchanging nods while others are starting to frown.

Raising her voice a little, Guinevere says, "That is excellent news, Geoffrey. When do they wish to send a delegation?"

"As soon as possible, your highness. They will only be in the vicinity of Camelot for a few more weeks, since they must seek new pasture for their animals before Imbolc."

This has been one of the unexpected obstacles in coming to peace with the various druid clans. They have been wary, but willing to at least talk, trusting that if Camelot is extending the hand of friendship first, their old enemy may at last be willing to change. Getting them to stay in one place for more than the few weeks that these negotiations require has been incredibly tricky, and Guinevere knows that if they miss this window, it may not come around for another year.

"Very well," she says. "Invite them to Camelot as soon as possible, and if they would rather not come here, we can meet at Kincarden instead."

This time, the ripple of movement around the table is more pronounced, with muttering breaking out at the far end. 

"My lady," Lord Edmund says, leaning forwards a little. "Would it not be better to await the king's return?"

It is clearly what many of them are thinking, judging by the nods of approval that the suggestion receives, and the way half the men at the table will not meet her eye. She glances at Gaius, who raises an eyebrow as if to say this reaction is only to be expected.

Sighing a little, she shakes her head at Lord Edmund. "I do not believe that would be wise. If we refuse this offer, it will not come round again for months, possibly a year. Or worse, they may take it as a sign of bad faith on our part, and never approach us again."

"And what a loss that would be," someone mutters, although Guinevere cannot tell who. 

It's a close thing, but she manages not to glare at the assembled lords. "It would be a great loss indeed. The king has devoted much time over the last three years to building trust between us and the druid peoples. I cannot believe that he would want us to delay when we have such an opportunity."

"How can we be sure this offer is in good faith?" Lord Dunstan asks. His tone is reasonable, curious almost, as though he is not actually questioning her judgement, only pointing out something that she might have overlooked. "Not all the druids have been friendly to Camelot."

"And surely they must realise that we cannot always be tied to their movements," someone else says, and it takes Guinevere a moment to find the speaker, Lord Godric, who is sitting at the far end of the table. He doesn't turn to her as he speaks, making it clear that he is addressing the table in general. "Surely if they truly wish to ally themselves with us, they would be willing to compromise a little."

"Unless they have a reason for forcing an early meeting, while the king and his advisors are away."

The meeting is slipping away from her, Guinevere can feel it, and it's only when Dunstan speaks again that she realises what the real problem is. They do not fear to meet the druids in Arthur's absence; they fear meeting them without Merlin there.

She could laugh, that a council that had to be persuaded, cajoled and downright threatened to accept Merlin in the first place has now come to depend on him to protect them. The smile never reaches her mouth, though, because from the corner of her eyes, she sees Gaius's fingers twitch, just a little, where they rest on the table, and when she looks up at his face, it is fixed in careful blankness. She knows it is the look he uses when he feels he should not speak his mind in the council, but dearly wishes he could.

Before the council can wind itself up any further, she raises her hand to ensure she has their full attention. "My lords," she says, not quite shouting, but with a firmness in her voice that will brook no argument. "We will meet with the druids as soon as they are able. Yes, there are a few clans who will not accept Arthur as king of Camelot or," she adds without the wry smile that she wants to give them, "Merlin's authority as Emrys. And yes, they have made assaults on our people before, but we cannot allow this to stop us speaking with this clan, or accepting the hands of friendship that they offer us. It is a calculated risk, and one that I believe we must take."

"Quite, my lady," Geoffrey says, and she's grateful to him for the glare that he gives his fellow councillors, since it expresses the irritation that she does not feel able to show. "I will send a message to them at once."

"Thank you, Geoffrey. If there is nothing else, my lords?" She rises, forcing the others to get to their feet out of courtesy, and sweeps out of the room ahead of them, carefully pretending that she doesn’t see the disapproving frowns she is receiving.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

Once in her rooms again, she paces in front of the window for a while, occasionally looking down into the courtyard to see who is leaving with whom, and who is lingering in the castle. Edmund and Dunstan are speaking while the stable hands bring out their horses, and while they could be discussing current grain levels, or how many horses they intend to buy at the fair next week, she doubts that is the case.

A soft sound behind her makes her turn swiftly, and Sefa startles, nearly dropping the tray she is carrying.

"I’m sorry, my lady," she says, putting the tray down and steadying the cup that looks like it is about to fall. "You didn’t eat very much at breakfast, so I thought you might be hungry."

"Thank you, Sefa." It’s a kind thought, and as if on cue, Guinevere’s stomach rumbles, making her laugh and Sefa smile. "It seems you may have a point."

The wine is warm and a little sweet, and she hadn’t realised how cold her hands were until Sefa pours her a cup and she is able to wrap her chilled fingers around it. She carefully doesn’t look up at Sefa, who is moving around the room, straightening the covers on the bed and rearranging the few items on the dresser that really don’t need it. Whatever is on the girl’s mind, Guinevere knows now not to push her into talking about it. Hopefully she will come to it in her own time.

"My lady," she says at last, and Guinevere tries not to look up too quickly, as though she has not been waiting for Sefa to speak. "May I ask you something?"

"Of course, Sefa. Anything." She smiles a little in what she hopes is an encouraging manner, watching Sefa twist a silver hairbrush in her hands. 

"Did you mean what you said in the council. About the druids, I mean?"

This is not the question Guinevere was expecting. She’d been braced for something about Sefa’s mystery admirer, or perhaps about how a servant could advance at the court, not about the council politics. Thinking for a moment, she supposes it’s not that strange a question, though, given Sefa’s own background, and how little time she has actually spent in Camelot.

"Yes, I did," she says simply. "It was difficult at first, learning to trust each other, and I do not think that without Aeldred any of the treaties could have happened. He and Merlin spent a long time working on that first alliance, and since then, we have had good relations with most druid peoples."

"But not all."

"Is that what is bothering you?" Getting up from her chair, Guinevere comes around the table and gently takes the hairbrush from Sefa, putting a hand on hers to try to still them. "Sefa, we do not hold all druids responsible for the acts of the few. And we have not given up hope that there may be peace with the last few clans yet."

She does not let go of Sefa’s hand, feeling the girl trembling a little. Sefa has turned her face away, presumably to try to hide the flush creeping over her cheeks, and so Guinevere almost doesn’t hear it when she says, "There has been so much blood. King Uther-"

"Is dead." Guinevere puts down the hairbrush and places her free hand on Sefa’s face, drawing her around to look at her again. "Arthur is not his father, and he has sought forgiveness for his own past. Just as we do not judge all druids by the wrongs that a few have done, we ask them not to judge us by our actions in the past. We are striving for peace in all the five kingdoms, Sefa, but it must start here in Camelot."

Finally, Sefa looks up, her eyes meeting Guinevere’s, huge and wide and shining. There is something guarded about them still, and Guinevere has the same impression that she felt at breakfast, that Sefa is holding something back that she desperately wants to say. As much as she wants to give her a shake and demand answers, Guinevere restrains herself, just squeezing the hand under hers before letting go. 

The moment passes, and Sefa looks away, dropping her eyes. "Yes, my lady," she says, stepping away from Guinevere’s touch on her face, and going past her to collect the tray from the table. "I should take this back to the kitchens."

Trying not to let her disappointment show, Guinevere nods. Whatever it is that Sefa is hiding, she obviously won’t give up her secret easily. Perhaps her mystery lover is from one of the druid clans that still oppose Camelot, which would explain the need for secrecy. Dropping back into her chair, Guinevere fervently hopes that isn’t the problem, because while she likes Sefa, and would protect her as far as possible, that is the sort of thing she thinks Arthur would find hard to forgive. Not after what happened last year.

_"I keep telling you, I’m fine." Merlin tried to wrestle free of Arthur’s hold on his arm and Gaius’ grip on his chin. "Let me go."_

_Arthur’s face was white with what Guinevere knew was anger as much as concern. "Fine," he said, releasing Merlin and gesturing for Gaius to do the same._

_"Thank you," Merlin said. He pushed himself up on his elbows, swung his legs off Gaius’ workbench and stood up, his knees giving way underneath him as soon as his feet hit the floor._

_Arthur caught him before he could crumple to the ground, and Guinevere helped him lie Merlin back down on the table, supporting his head and trying not to notice the ashen colour of his cheeks._

_"Idiot boy," Gaius nudged Guinevere out of the way and started running his hands over Merlin’s head again, muttering to himself._

_"I know I’m always asking if you were dropped on your head as a child," Arthur said, "but to do it as an adult is just careless."_

_"Sorry." The word was mumbled through lips that were rapidly draining of colour. Merlin turned his head fitfully as Gaius moved his fingers into his hair. "Hurts," he said._

_"I know." Glancing up at them, Gaius’ expression was grave. "I will need some help, sire. A healer from one of the druid clans."_

_There was a brief silence, and Guinevere could see Arthur wrestling with the instruction. "Are you sure, Gaius?" he said after a moment, his arms folded tightly across his chest and his fingers digging into his bicep so deeply that his knuckles were turning white._

_"It was not they that did this to him. I have no doubt that they are as worried as you are."_

_Guinevere doubted it, but she nodded when Arthur looked at her. "Let them help," she said softly._

_"If I find they had anything to do with the assault, I will execute them personally." Then he was gone, the door slamming behind him, and Guinevere heard him talking to the guards outside._

_"Is there anything I can do?" she asked Gaius, swallowing back the worst of her fear._

_"Tell me exactly what happened. All Arthur said was that he fell." Gaius gestured for her to come around and help him lift Merlin’s head a little as he ran his fingers over the back of his skull. Merlin was perfectly still now, and she forced herself not to think about how quickly he seemed to be slipping away, trying to answer Gaius’ question instead._

_"He was on the southern battlements. One of their sorcerers was trying to bring the tower down, but Merlin stopped him, fought back the whole group of them and he must have dropped his defences. He didn’t just fall, Gaius," she said, looking up into his worried face. "They threw him to the ground."_

_She’d been running up the steps to the battlement, bringing four of Aeldred’s men who’d become lost in Camelot’s winding corridors, when she’d heard the scream. One of the druid women with Merlin had been clinging to the wall, shouting his name when Guinevere had arrived, and she’d looked down to see the tiny, dark shape on the ground below. Such a long way below. There had been a brief moment of hope when he’d somehow, impossibly, dragged himself to his feet, clearing a path for Arthur and his men to get through, and to finally drive off the attackers. Then he had collapsed again, only waking when they’d brought him into Gaius’ chambers._

_"It might not just be a physical injury," Gaius said. He nodded for her to lower Merlin’s head again, but she carried on cradling it, trying not to look down into his immobile face. It might have been easier if he’d just looked like he was asleep, or had been restless and delirious, the way he had when he’d drunk the poison meant for Arthur all those years ago. The unnatural stillness of his face was worse than any of that, as though his body was just a shell left behind._

_Some of what she was thinking must have showed on her face, because Gaius reached out and gripped her wrist._

_"He will survive this, Gwen. I promise."_

_She nodded, swallowing down the tears and the choking panic. Gaius and the druids had dropped heavy hints over the years that it would take a lot more than a physical injury to kill Merlin, but what if they were wrong?_

_"Hold him still," Gaius said, straightening a little and holding his hands out, one over Merlin’s forehead, the other over his heart. His eyes flared gold for a moment, and he spoke a few words in the magical language that she was so used to hearing now. She still couldn’t make sense of it, but it was comforting somehow, hearing them here in this room, where she had seen them do so much good._

_"Please, Merlin," she whispered, as Gaius started to repeat the words, almost like a chant. Merlin’s skin was cold under her lips when she stooped to kiss his forehead. Blinking back the tears, she kept her hands on either side of his head, concentrating on listening to Gaius’ words and waiting for Merlin to wake up._

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

"Your highness?"

Gaius’ voice breaks into her memories, startling Guinevere so badly that she knocks over the inkwell on the desk. They have a few frantic minutes of trying to find something to mop up the spreading ink, then spreading out the damaged papers to dry. 

"Sorry," Gaius says, wiping ink from his fingers on the cloth she offers him. "I did knock a few times."

"No apology needed." Taking her seat again, Guinevere gestures for him to join her. "I was quite lost in my thoughts." When he gives her a questioning look, she just says, "Merlin’s fall," and he nods his understanding. 

"I can see how that might preoccupy you today." He glances down at his hands, and then up again. "It is the druids that I wished to speak to you about."

A little surprised, Guinevere says, "Please don’t tell me you’re going to ask me to postpone the negotiations as well."

"Not at all. Just the opposite, in fact. Despite what you think, there are people on the council who support your decision. It has taken time for the druid peoples to accept that they can live safely under Camelot’s rule. The sooner we can bring more of them into Arthur’s fold, the better."

There is always something Gaius is not saying. Sometimes, it seems as though the years of secrecy, having to hide things from Uther, then Arthur, have left him with an inability to be open any more. This time, Guinevere thinks she knows what he is holding back.

"You’re concerned about those who will not negotiate with us," she says, and gets a reluctant nod in reply.

"If Morgana is building a power base at Ismere, it is possible that she will be able to draw some of them to her side. And we already know they have little fear of attacking Camelot itself."

"But if we can bring more clans to us, quickly, we may be able to isolate those who have so far refused. Perhaps even convince them to change their minds?"

"Perhaps." Gaius doesn’t sound entirely convinced. "But at the very least, we will have more druids on our side if it does come to a confrontation."

"Would they really stand against Merlin so openly?" Guinevere asks, meeting Gaius’ eyes as calmly as she can, because she refuses to believe that he will not be coming back to them. 

"They have already done so. And if they do go to Morgana’s banner, then I’m sure she will give them all the courage they need."

Merlin's position as Emrys is always rather precarious as far as Guinevere can tell, at least in part because he always seems deeply uncomfortable when people use the title. She is still not entirely clear what the title means, only that the druids seem to regard him as some kind of cross between a high king and a high priest, and that neither role really suits him. She also knows that he and Arthur have had some of their longest arguments on the subject, ones which even she didn’t dare interrupt. 

"Then it is all the more important that we negotiate and complete this treaty as soon as possible," she says, pushing the thought away. "Obviously I would like you and Geoffrey there, but who else from the council will support us?"

They pass the next few hours discussing possibilities, and once the ink has dried, they go over the usual treaty terms again. She must be sure that everything is done correctly, if they are to conclude these talks as quickly as possible. If there is even a slim chance that it could help defend Camelot in the future, then she is not going to risk losing it.

~

A day passes. Merlin sleeps a little, still not sure how hard he hit his head or if there is any lingering damage. He eats and drinks from the tray that a sneering Saxon brings in and leaves by the cage. It's not easy with his bound hands, and he has to twist them to get his fingers far enough through the bars to reach the water skin and bread roll. The movement makes the chains tighten, and he winces, forcing himself to relax and not to react to either the pressure on his skin or the uncomfortable jolt when he accidentally bumps his fingers against the bars.

It occurs to him that both food and water may have been drugged, but he also knows that he doesn't have much choice. If he had full access to his magic, he'd be able to manage for a few days at least. Without it, he must have food and water. Besides, he suspects Morgana won't let him die of anything as simple as thirst or hunger.

With her power imbuing the cage around him, it has been like having Morgana for the whole of the day, a watching presence, creeping under his skin and into the back of his mind. Testing his magic against it gets him nowhere, only a burning pain that makes him gasp and shiver. It is there, though, responding to his call, and he doesn't doubt that if he had to, he could bear the pain and break his way out. He and Gaius have spent much of the last three years studying the powers of the high priestesses, and while her skill is supreme, he knows that he is more than a match for her in sheer, raw power. What he doesn't know is what will happen to the rest of him if he gives that power free rein.

He opens his eyes a slit when he hears movement at the far end of the hall, giving up his fairly useless attempts to meditate. However much various druid leaders have tried to teach him, clearing his mind of concerns and distractions is not something he has ever really mastered. The fact that Arthur is actually fairly good at it has only confirmed Merlin’s long-held suspicion that Arthur’s brain is essentially empty to begin with. 

"Enjoying my hospitality?" Morgana says, pushing the tray of food aside as she stops in front of the cage. When he doesn’t reply, she smiles a little. "No, I suppose you aren’t."

"What do you want, Morgana?" It’s an effort to get to his feet, his legs stiff from sitting too long. "You can’t really think this is going to hold me forever."

"Maybe not." There’s something far too knowing in her expression. "But I was hoping that we wouldn’t need it forever." She leans forwards, running her fingers down the bars. "We should be on the same side, you and I."

"What?" This is not what he’d been expecting and he takes half a step away, fingers flexing instinctively. He'd expected an interrogation, perhaps. Questions, accusations, and not a small dose of pain. Morgana leaning against the bars of the cage, her skin alabaster white against the dark metal, looking up at him with a small, knowing smile on her lips is not something he’d even imagined. Almost without thinking, he takes half a step backwards.

Her smile widens. "I know what you are, Merlin. There are so many prophecies about Emrys, about his powers and his strengths and all that he will do. You were not born to serve a weakling king and his mundane people."

He wonders for a dizzying moment if she really knows him so little that she thinks that would tempt him. "And I know what you are, Morgana," he says, straightening as much as he can with his hands bound awkwardly in front of him. "In the days of the old religion, the high priestesses held absolute power over the lives of the people, and they used it to terrify them. No one could disagree with any of their decisions without risking punishment or death. By the time Uther-"

"Do not speak his name to me." There is a light thread of colour running under her pale cheeks as she wraps a hand around one of the bars. Her eyes flash and Merlin feels the ripple of danger in the air. "He betrayed and murdered our people."

"The people of Camelot welcomed him," Merlin says, feeling bolder even as he can sense Morgana’s anger growing. It’s not the whole truth, not by a long shot, but he knows from experience that letting your temper get the better of you makes you vulnerable, and he has no other weapon to use against her at the moment. "They asked him to take the throne, to rescue them."

"Liar!" 

On the other hand, letting your temper get the better of you can also make you stronger. As soon as Morgana eyes flash gold, Merlin knows this is going to hurt, and he starts to close his eyes even as he sees her slam her palm into the bars. The force is overwhelming, a hammer blow to the chest that pushes him back hard enough that he’s sure the bars behind him are going to buckle. He flinches, trying to protect himself, and crying out when the enchanted chains cut into his wrists. Unbidden, his magic rises up, training and spells forgotten as it tries to wrap him in power, shield him from the second strike that is sure to come. 

Except it doesn’t, of course. Morgana doesn’t need to hurt him again when his own magic will do that for him. Despite his best efforts, Merlin cries out as the burning, searing sensation leaps into life under his skin, burning through all conscious thought and sending his vision sparking into white. Distantly, he’s aware that there’s an epicentre of pain around his wrists, but it’s only one flare amongst the wildfire ripping through his body. 

He falls to his knees, reaching out to catch himself, the jarring of the heels of his hands against the wood is grounding, an earthy, real sensation against the agony of magic that seems to come from the core of his being. It’s only then that he realises he’s put his hands down a little way apart, under his shoulders to support his weight. Breathing hard, he forces his eyes to open, looking down at the floor of the cage. The first thing he sees is the remains of the chain, broken links littering the dark wood. There is a long length that is still intact, but more pieces seem to have been simply torn apart, the broken metal twisted and warped. 

Outside the cage, Morgana laughs. "Oh, Merlin. I see you really are as powerful as they said." When he can lift his eyes, she is crouched in front of him, tipping her head a little to see his face. "And here I was thinking the druids were just exaggerating." She smiles again, broad and almost genuine this time, amused by his confusion. "Oh, don’t worry, my dear. You’ll need a lot more power than that to break out of here. I’m almost interested to see if you can manage it." The smile falls away, and she narrows her eyes at him, her lips moving in an almost silent incantation that he can barely hear.

Her eyes glow with magic for a moment, but nothing happens. Merlin can still feel the thrum of power in the cage around him, the slight tremble in his hands as they hold him up. No, it’s more than a slight tremble, and when he looks down to frown at his shaking arms, he finds he can’t lift his head again, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Poisoned?" he manages between gasps, trying to look up at Morgana, but only managing to see the bars of the cage, and the hem of her skirts beyond.

"It only seemed fair." She sounds so much like herself, and like the Morgana he used to know, that Merlin’s head spins faster for a moment, and his elbows give way. "But unlike you, my intention is not to kill."

"Not. Much. Comfort," Merlin says, rolling onto his side and trying to get enough air into his lungs to stop his vision going black. 

Her laugh is high and perhaps even genuinely amused. "I suppose not. But this is no ordinary poison, Merlin. Hemlock is just so boring, don’t you think?" Through his blurry vision, he sees her stand, looking down at him with something cold and calculating in her eyes. "Magical poisons are much more effective."

At what, he doesn’t know, but he can feel his own magic trying to fight, and barely has time to brace himself against the pain that washes over him in its wake.

"Don’t try to fight it," Morgana says above him and a long way away. "I want to know your secrets, Emrys. I want to know if what the Cailleach told me is true."

Somewhere, Merlin knows that his body is in pain. Between whatever Morgana gave him and the backlash against his magic, the agony is almost too much to bear. It must be too much, he thinks, because he can’t really feel it any more. His mind has withdrawn, in a way that he recognises from the once or twice he’s managed this in meditation, detaching itself for protection. But he is not alone here.

His mind is full of dragons. In the landscape inside his head, they swoop and soar above him, almost completely blocking out the light of the sun. The ground in front of him is similarly covered, dragons of every size and colour crowding in together, pressing close to him. Their skin is warm and rough against his as they push forwards, and for a moment, it is comforting. He wonders if they’re here to protect him, to keep him back from the writhing pain in his body. Except the press is almost too much, threatening to crush him, and when he turns, trying to get free, something growls in his ear and a snapping jaw comes too close to his face. In the sky, the last of the light disappears behind a winged body, and he tips his head back, trying to see a way free. 

He is looking into the wide, sorrowful eyes of another dragon, white scales bright even though the light is gone. 

"Aithusa?" he whispers, even as the breath is being pressed out of him.

She tilts her head, as though listening for something in the distance, and Merlin strains to hear it as well, Morgana’s voice just a quiet echo in his mind, and his own voice answering it, although he cannot make out the words. 

"Please, Aithusa." He must return, must stop himself before he can give Morgana any of the answers she seeks. "Help me."

In the darkness, Aithusa’s eyes are bright, almost luminous as she looks at him, and he reaches out to her, trying to pull her mind to his. She jerks back, startled, and lifts her head to the sky. Merlin has just enough time to cry out before he hears her croaking, rasping voice in his mind.

_"Emrys. Emrys."_

Merlin comes back to himself, his body shaking violently on the floor of the cage, and his voice babbling words that it takes him a moment to recognise as dragontongue, each syllable sounding as though it is being ripped from him. It’s not a summons, or at least not one he’s used before. The words are broken with sobs that he has to clench his jaw against, trying to stop the words from pouring out. 

"Interesting," Morgana says, her voice cutting through the last of the pain-haze in his mind. He cannot tell from her tone whether or not he told her anything of importance, and her next words are no help either. "It seems we will have to do this again." She stoops, waiting until his eyes focus on her before saying, "And don’t think you can escape by having me kill you. From what I’ve heard, I’m not sure even I could manage it. Arthur, on the other hand? Well, if he will make the mistake of coming this far north, he’s just inviting an ambush, wouldn’t you say?"

Before Merlin can do more than open his mouth, trying to get the words through the choking pressure on his throat, she is gone. He hears the doors to the hall slam behind her, the sound reverberating through the cold air. His hands are still shaking and it takes a tremendous effort to turn onto his side, trying not to retch with the nausea the movement brings. Helplessly, he presses his hands into the wood, reaching for his magic and forcing it down, trying to break through the rough planks. The pain is instant, and he grits his teeth against it, pushing harder in the hopes that he can find some weakness to exploit, anything to break not only the physical cage, but the binding spell Morgana has placed on it.

His body gives out before his will does, succumbing to the pain and leaving him prone on the floor with Morgana’s words ringing in his ears. 

"Arthur," he whispers, not even having the strength for a flicker of magic to cast his words outwards. Because as much as he hates the idea of Arthur riding to his rescue again, if Morgana manages to ambush him first, then Merlin’s chances of escape will suddenly become an awful lot smaller.


	5. Ambush

  
_Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: You don't give up._  
Anne Lamott

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

Annis is just as Arthur remembers her, although they have not met in person since that awful day more than three years ago. Her letters are always terse and direct, her men hard-faced and serious. Caerleon is a harsh territory, breeding hardy people with little time for pleasantries.

"Arthur Pendragon," Annis says, extending a hand as he comes into her throne room.

"Queen Annis. I am most grateful you have allowed us safe passage through your kingdom."

"We are allies, Arthur, and these are troubled times." Her eyes scan the knights behind him, obviously not finding what she is looking for. "It is true, then. When your messenger told me Merlin was missing, I could hardly believe it."

It is an eternal mystery to Arthur why Merlin and Annis are so fond of each other, yet he always returns from his brief visits here with a smile on his face, and stories of her excellent hospitality. Guinevere’s theory is that Annis is one of the few of their allies who does not treat Merlin as anything but Arthur’s servant, a role he actually knows how to play. Arthur suspects that Annis still thinks Merlin is the court fool, and humours him because his idiocy amuses her. 

There is no humour in the look she gives him now. "Come. We have much to discuss."

It is a solemn council in her chambers, sitting around her fire with a few of her trusted men, Gwaine and Leon taking up places behind Arthur’s chair. 

"You really mean to make an assault on Ismere?" Annis asks, not trying to hide her scepticism. 

Arthur shrugs a little. "We mean to raid the tower. I don’t have the forces at the moment to make an all-out assault, but a small group of us can be in and out before they have time to stop us."

"Assuming you can get past Morgana." Seeing Arthur’s flinch, she leans forward in her chair. "Oh yes, we know she is there. What you saw at Asgorath is no surprise."

"I am sorry for the loss of your people, Annis." There are no words he can say that will ease that loss, he knows, but she nods in acknowledgement all the same. 

"Some months ago, Saxons began raiding our villages. They're rounding up all the men they can find and taking them to Ismere. People say Morgana is tearing the citadel apart."

That’s news to Arthur, and he hears Leon stir behind him. "What is she looking for?" he asks, not really expecting Annis to know. At this point he’ll take an unsubstantiated rumour over going in completely blind.

"I dare not think," Annis says. It is a grey day outside, with little light filtering through the small windows, and her face is lit by the flames of the fire, casting strange shadows across her eyes. "But I think things will be much worse if she finds it."

This changes things. Arthur had assumed the raids were scare tactics, the Saxons flexing their muscles and making it obvious that they can raid the lands of Albion with impunity. If they are actually recruiting a labour force, then Arthur has a new set of problems to deal with.

"The men who have been taken, are they from your army?"

"Some. Most are farmers now, but there are few men in Caerleon who have not spent at least some time in arms. Why?"

"Sire," Leon says, "we may not be able to-"

Arthur holds up a hand to stop him. "No, this may work. If we could find a way to coordinate it properly."

"It’d take some doing," Gwaine says, and of course, he sounds much less nervous than Leon. Probably because Arthur’s idea is dangerous and risky, which are at least two of the things that Gwaine looks for in a plan. That should probably worry Arthur more than it does.

Turning his attention back to Annis, Arthur says, "If we could find a way to let your people know that we were attacking the castle, do you think they would rise up with us? Morgana can’t fight an army from outside and inside the citadel at the same time."

"There is no way to tell how many men she has, and how many have already died," Annis says, her face still grave. "But yes, if they knew help was near, I am sure you would find them willing and able."

"Then it is settled." He can practically hear Leon frowning behind him. Trying to save Annis’ people as well is much riskier than just a lightning raid to grab Merlin and get out of there again, but Annis is an ally, and a good one. Besides, now he knows that Morgana has more than just her own men at Ismere, he can’t just leave them there. If there is even a chance he can help them, he has to take it. "Ismere is closer to your lands than ours, Annis. Do you have any maps or plans we could use?"

Annis sends her men to see what they can find in the royal archives, while Arthur dismisses Gwaine and Leon to let the others know about the change of plan. He stares into the fire for a long time after they have gone, listening to Annis move about the room. . The gentle touch to his shoulder makes him jump a little, and he looks up to see her standing over him, a worried look on her face and a goblet in her hand.

"Here," she says, handing it to him. "You look like you could use this."

The wine is sweet and warm and welcome. Annis brings a goblet of her own over and they sit together for a few minutes, unspeaking. Eventually, Arthur stirs himself.

"You should know," he says slowly, "that while I am happy to do whatever I can for your men, the first priority of the mission must be to rescue Merlin."

"From what he is always saying, I had no idea you thought so highly of him." There is a twist to Annis’ lips that tells Arthur she does not entirely mean what she says, and he manages to smile back. 

"I don’t need to, when everyone else keeps telling me how marvellous he is."

"You’re really worried," Annis says softly. "All this for one man?"

"All this for any of my men." It’s not quite a lie. If there was the slightest chance that his own men were alive in Ismere, he would certainly mount an expedition to save them. Whether he would have felt the same desperate urgency about it is another matter. 

"I don’t doubt it. Still," Annis leans forward, her goblet cradled in her hands, "I am not sure that you would be staring into my fire, looking as though the world will end if you fail."

"Perhaps not."

"So what is so special about this sorcerer, Arthur? I know he is your friend and trusted advisor."

"Camelot needs him," Arthur says, because it is the truth. "His power is unequalled in the five kingdoms."

That’s true enough, and is something Arthur has said a hundred times before, mostly because it makes Merlin turn really interesting shades of red and glare daggers at him. 

"Then surely Morgana will not be able to hold him." There is something close to genuine confusion in Annis’ face, and Arthur looks away, not sure how much he can tell her. She will know that he is holding something back, but he doesn’t think she needs to know the truth. No one needs to know it. 

"Morgana is stronger than she appears. And Merlin is too chivalrous and honourable for his own good." Neither of the statements are lies, which makes them easy to say with conviction. They’re also the sorts of explanations that Annis will understand.

"Too many men are," she says, and when he looks back at her, she is smiling again. "I am sure he is strong enough to survive, Arthur."

"As am I."

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

They are interrupted by the return of Annis’ men as well as Leon, and the rest of the afternoon is lost to planning and tactics, guessing from the vague rumours that have reached Caerleon just how many men might be captive, and the best way to get to them without tipping their hand. Arthur is grateful for Leon’s steady, sceptical experience, which tempers his own sense of urgency that would probably have him fling himself at the castle single-handed if he had to.

It should be a good distraction, discussing numbers of men and the sort of training that an average foot soldier might have. There is so much to think about, not only in the attack itself, but how they are to escape afterwards, taking Annis’ men with them. As the discussion goes on around him, Arthur’s eyes are drawn by the plan of the tower. Merlin will be there, he’s sure of it. Morgana will want to keep him close, and she won’t dare risk letting him loose to hunt for whatever this mystery object is that she seeks. Ismere is a warren of rooms, many of them small and so easier to heat in a land that is covered in snow for most of the year. Any one of them would make a suitable cell, and if they have to hunt through every single one, they could be there for years. He just has to hope that Merlin will know what is happening and be able to act, at least to signal his position if nothing else. 

He shakes his head when Leon asks if there is anything else. 

"No, that’s everything I can think of. Anyone else?" When there is no answer he straightens, feeling the weight of the mail he is still wearing and the vambraces that are digging into his wrists. "Then we’ll set out at first light tomorrow."

~

Ismere is still a day and a half’s ride away, hard going over rough scrubland that doesn’t look like it would be very hospitable in summer, let alone at this time of year when the trees have been stripped of their leaves and the grass grows only in thin patches. Arthur pretends he doesn’t see the looks the others are giving him as he leads the column, and he’s not entirely surprised when in the afternoon, Gwaine replaces Leon at his side.

"So are you planning on speaking to any of us before we get to Ismere, or is that going to be our reward for when we save Merlin? Because I have to say, as incentives go, I’ve heard better. You’re a lot easier to live with when you’re this quiet."

"Gwaine." Arthur tries to put enough warning into his tone to make Gwaine stop, even though he knows it’s a futile effort. 

"I mean, you were downright miserable at dinner last night, only Annis was far too polite to say anything. Bet Gwen would have said something though."

As if he doesn’t have enough on his mind, Arthur does not need to be worrying about Guinevere as well right now. Camelot is the safest it has been for years, and she is more than capable of handling any problems that should arise. Except that now Gwaine has planted the thought in his head, he’s wondering if he should have let the heads of the nearest druid clans know, and maybe Eric should have stayed with her instead. 

Narrowing his eyes, he glares at Gwaine, who gives him an infuriating grin. "Now, there he is. I was starting to think we’d left the real Arthur behind at Asgorath." Bringing his horse a little close, Gwaine lowers his voice. "Whatever that overgrown lizard told you, you have to stop letting it eat away at you. You’re no good to Merlin or us if you’re distracted."

When Gwaine starts being the voice of reason and rationality, Arthur knows he’s in trouble. He shakes his head and looks away, trying to shrug off the worry that has settled around him like a cloak. This isn’t like him, he knows, and he knows also that it’s because Merlin usually deals with this sort of thing. It’s Merlin who normally staggers under the burden of prophecy and destiny, trying to know enough to be warned about the future without being overwhelmed by it. Normally, Arthur teases him about it, and he wonders now if Gwaine is the one who helps to drag him out from under its crushing weight. He and Merlin are certainly close, always have been, and if anyone could help Merlin see the lighter side of life, it’s Gwaine.

They ride on in silence for a little while, Gwaine whistling the odd snatch of melody, or humming under his breath. It’s not loud, but it keeps cutting through Arthur’s concentration, every time he’s lost in thought about what they’re going to find at Ismere, or wondering how Guinevere is coping back in Camelot. When he glances over at Gwaine, he’s always conveniently looking the other way. 

They stop very briefly around noon to water the horses and give them a moment’s respite. They left Caerleon with lean saddlebags, not wanting to be weighed down with too many provisions, and Arthur makes himself eat the meagre rations, because then he can be sure everyone else will eat as well. As Merlin would tell him, he’s eaten worse. 

_"The pork stew that Percival made us eat just before Imbolc last year."_

_Arthur groaned, trying not to remember the strange, unidentifiable floating objects that had drifted to the top of his bowl. When he’d closed his eyes, it hadn’t actually tasted that bad. It had just been a bad idea to look at it._

_"Okay," he said thoughtfully, "the pie you made me buy you in the tavern at ." He’d tried a bit. The pastry had tasted off, and he didn’t even want to think about the filling._

_"Good point. I hadn’t actually known you could make pastry with rancid butter." Merlin gestured with his spoon. "Compared to that, this is a Beltane feast."_

_What it actually mostly seemed to consist of was watery porridge and some kind of bread that seemed to have been made from ground up rocks. Even Merlin was having trouble with it, and he could normally eat practically anything at any time._

_"Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m not that hungry," Arthur said, putting down his spoon. "Unless..." He looked up at Merlin, who appeared to be bracing himself for another spoonful. "I don’t suppose you could..."_

_As usual, it took Merlin a minute or so to catch up, and when he did, he raised his eyebrows just a little. "Are you asking if I can magic this into something that tastes better?"_

_"Well, I wasn’t going to put it quite like that."_

_"No, I can’t," Merlin said flatly. "Or at least, I could, but half the camp would sense it, and I really don’t want to have to explain to them that their food offended the King of Camelot’s delicate sensibilities."_

_"Not my sensibilities, Merlin, just my stomach." Still, the druid treaty was too important to risk a petty squabble getting in the way. Once they had this first one, Arthur hoped the rest would start to come forwards. And if that meant eating the whatever-it-was that they’d put in front of him, he supposed he’d better get on with it._

_In an attempt to distract himself, he said, "Do you think your mystery druid is lurking here?"_

_Merlin almost choked on his stew, glaring at Arthur as he coughed. "Perhaps."_

_"But you don’t know who he is?"_

_There it was, that edge of discomfort in Merlin’s eyes, when he was trying to work out how not to lie without actually telling the truth. "I’ll know him when I see him," he said, so firmly that Arthur knew he’d get no more out of him._

_Sighing a little, he resigned himself to his fate and concentrated on finishing his bowl of stew._

The food Annis gave them is perfectly edible, even if there isn’t much of it, but Arthur doesn’t really taste it. He nods vaguely when Gwaine and Percival say they’re going to go on ahead, see if they can hunt up anything for dinner. It won’t be easy at this time of year, and they’ll stand a better chance if they don’t have a few dozen knights on their heels. 

It leaves him to ride through the afternoon in peace, since Leon has much better manners than Gwaine and only intrudes on the silence to ask how far they should ride before stopping, and if Arthur wants to go over any of the details of the plan again. The answers are as far as possible, and definitely not, but he talks through them again anyway, ultimately knowing that success or failure will depend as much on luck and the mettle of his men rather than any amount of scheming and plotting. 

Irritatingly, Arthur is actually relieved when Gwaine appears on the path in front of them, a smug smile on his face as he leads them to where Percival is already setting up camp. It’s not nearly as far on as Arthur wants to be right now, leaving them still half a day’s fast ride to Ismere, and he chafes a little at having the decision taken away from him. The others dismount, obviously stiff from a day in the saddle, and he supposes if they are to be in fighting form tomorrow, it’s as well not to overtax them. 

His own muscles aren’t exactly thrilled at the long ride either, and he’s stretching the worst of it out of his back when Eric comes over, leading his own horse and offering to take Arthur’s. 

"Thank you," Arthur says, and holds out the reins, waiting. From the nervousness in his eyes, Eric is here to do more than just help Arthur with his horse.

"Sire." There’s a moment where Arthur thinks he’s going to change his mind on whatever it is he feels the need to say. Then Eric swallows and says, "Sire, I feel I should tell you. When we get to Ismere, I know you want me to accompany you but-"

"You’re no match for Morgana?" This time, he makes Eric actually take the reins, pulling off his gloves and reaching up to start unbuckling their saddlebags. 

"You know I’m not." Eric’s voice is low, steady and he seems to be back in control of himself. When he meets Arthur’s eyes, there is still reluctance in them, but none of the nerves he was showing before. 

Nodding, both in approval and agreement, Arthur hefts the bags onto his shoulders and gestures for Eric to follow him to where the rest of the horses are grazing. "I don’t expect you to take down Morgana all by yourself. If Merlin can’t manage it, then I don’t suppose anyone else can. But the whole plan depends on speed, which means we need to get to Merlin fast, and I’ve yet to see anything that clears the way as quickly as magic. Hopefully we can free Merlin in time for him to deal with Morgana."

They’ve reached the small clearing now, and Arthur waits while Eric loops the reins over a tree branch. He’s obviously having some kind of internal wrestling match, so Arthur leans against the tree, waiting. There’s no point rushing him or trying to bully him along, the way Arthur might with the other knights. As much as both Eric and Merlin like to deny it, he is different, and the things that are being asked of him are not the same as Arthur asks of the other knights. 

"And what if I fail?" 

"We will not fail." Here and now, there can be no room for doubts, whatever Arthur may think in the privacy of his own mind. "Morgana may prove stronger, her forces may be overwhelming, and we may die in the attempt. That does not mean we will have failed."

Eric nods, acknowledging the words that Arthur has said on a hundred occasions before this. "I understand, sire, and I knew from the moment I came to the knighthood that I would willingly lay down my life for you and my brother knights. But what if I am not strong enough, if my magic is not enough for this?"

It takes Arthur a moment to catch on, and he straightens up, frowning. "Eric, you are a knight of Camelot. I expect you to fight to the best of your ability and to your last breath, and I will ask no more of you than that. If strength were the only thing required to be a knight, then only Percival would be allowed to call himself one." 

The other man nods, his hands still wrapped around the horses’ reins. "I will not let you down, sire."

"I expect you not to let yourself down."

As they walk over to where the others have settled, unrolling blankets and getting fires going, Gwaine comes over to meet them, allowing Eric to excuse himself with little more than a polite nod.

"Was it something I said?" Gwaine asks, turning to watch him go. 

"Usually." 

That doesn’t work, not that Arthur really thought it would. 

"In that case, was it something you said?" The look Gwaine is giving him is all too sharp for Arthur’s liking, and there’s no point lying to him. 

"Probably." Sighing a little, Arthur drops the saddlebags at the foot of a tree and starts to unfasten his cloak. "I think he thinks I’m going to throw him out of the knighthood if he doesn’t defeat Morgana single-handed."

"Are you?"

That’s not a genuine question, of course, but it’s annoying all the same. "No. Of course not."

"Does he know that?" 

"Apparently not." A little rueful, Arthur spreads his cloak out and sits down, leaning his head back against the tree. "He should know I wouldn’t expect anything of him but his best. Merlin should have told him that."

"Because the gods forbid you should talk to him yourself."

"Certainly not. That’s what I have Merlin for."

Gwaine turns away, although not before Arthur sees the roll of his eyes. Still with his back to Arthur, he says, "He does seem to always know the right thing to say to people."

"Or he baffles them sufficiently that they nod and smile without really knowing what they’re agreeing to."

"That would certainly explain how I ended up here. One minute I’m doing the occasional a favour for a friend, the next, someone’s tapping me with a sword and telling me I’m a knight of Camelot. Funny how these things happen."

They’re both quiet for a while, watching the familiar routine of the camp settling in for the night, men talking and laughing, shoving at each other for the best place by the fire, and generally making the noises men make when it's the night before battle.

"Maybe we should wait for Aeldred," Arthur says, watching Elyan and Percival have their now traditional debate as to whether hares or rabbits make the better stew. 

"Do you think Merlin is still alive?" 

"Yes." Just as there was no give in Gwaine's question, Arthur's answer is sure and without hesitation. "Kilgharrah would know if he wasn't. And if Kilgharrah knew, I'd know." 

"Then every day we wait is a day wasted, isn't it?" There's the sound of movement, and Arthur turns enough to see Gwaine's face, oddly lit by the firelight in the growing dark. He looks grave and serious and quite unlike himself. "And the way I see it, if we don't succeed, someone will take the time to gather a real force to send against Morgana."

That's something Arthur hadn't thought of, and it's some comfort, if only of the cold kind. 

"Just as long as they tell everyone we softened her up for them," he says, and is rewarded with a flash of white teeth as Gwaine grins.

"That we will," he says, and although he is smiling, there is an edge to his voice that's as hard as steel. "That we will."

~

By the time everyone is packed up the next morning, Arthur has found the centred, focussed calm that he always has before battle. It's not that he isn't afraid. Considering what they're about to do, fear is a perfectly rational response. But the fear is muffled by experience and training and his trust in the men around him. In truth, action rarely frightens him, not any more. As long as there is something he can do, that is all the courage he needs.

There is little of last night's laughing and joking this morning, everyone's attention on armour and weapons, buckles and blades. That can be the only excuse for not noticing the men coming over the ridge until they are halfway down it. 

"Arthur!" Gwaine calls. "Behind you."

He turns as quickly as he can, seeing more shapes coming out of the early morning mist, closing in slowly. From what he can see of them, they are wearing the mixed leather and metal armour of Saxons, while they carry an array of swords and axes in all sizes and shapes. It's the one carrying the crossbow that worries Arthur, though, and he turns back to shout to the others to take cover. Then he sees the men approaching from downhill, and he changes his mind about the order.

"Run!" he shouts, grabbing the man nearest to him and shoving at him to get moving. If they can reach the horses in time, they might make it out of here yet. A distant whinnying draws his attention, because it's from behind him, while he knows the horses are ahead. He skids to a stop, heedless of someone grabbing his shoulder and trying to pull him on. There are dark shapes all around them now, but his eyes are drawn upwards, back to the top of the ridge.

The men are all on foot, the steep ground not suited to fighting from horseback. There is one horse though, still on the high ground, its rider looking down onto what will soon be a battlefield below. It's only a silhouette against the grey sky, indistinct and hazy, and as soon as Arthur's eyes settle on it, he feels a chill go down his spine. Because he would know Morgana anywhere, just from the way she stands, the way she rides, and if she has come in person, then this is not just a skirmish. She means to see him dead.

Finally, he lets himself be dragged away, drawing his sword and hearing the slide of steel all around him as the others do the same. They're slowing down, and when he turns to look, he sees why. The Saxons are between them and the horses, and there's going to be nothing for it but to fight their way out. As if sensing the moment, there is a great cry from the men around him, echoed a second later by the Saxons, who begin to charge.

No matter what his tutors always told him, Arthur has never found battle to be anything but a confusing mess when he is in the midst of it. Perhaps for Morgana, still on her horse on top of the ridge, it is a more cohesive whole, waves of men meeting, clashing, fighting and falling back, like the neat lines from the manuals of war. For him, it is constant, relentless chaos, men coming at him with swords raised high, screaming whatever passes for a war cry in their language.

The one thing he has always been able to do, even if he cannot tell from the middle of it how the bigger picture is playing out, is find the hot spots, the places where his men are in most danger. He parries a wild downward stroke from a man carrying an axe that he is swinging with more force than precision. Deflecting the blow easily, he sweeps the axe aside, letting the man's own momentum carry him to the ground. He raises his sword to deliver a killing blow, when a dark movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. All the men around him are in black, so it takes him a moment to realise why this one is different.

It's an older man, not wearing the dark leather armour of the Saxons, just a simple dark tunic, black gloved hands holding a sword that he obviously knows how to use. Trusting his instincts to protect him if anyone should pick this moment to come at him, Arthur risks watching the man, seeing the way he moves, the way he wields the sword like a man born to it. Arthur has to pull his attention away to fend off a screaming attack from a man running down the hill at him, blocking the first two strokes, and then twisting his body out of the way so that the man stumbles a little, giving Arthur enough of an opening to slash across the front of the leather armour. His attacker goes down, probably only bruised, but winded enough not to get up again for a while.

It's not easy to get through the fighting to where he needs to be. The Saxons are everywhere, and while most of them lack the skill of a trained knight, they more than make up for it in strength and numbers. Shouldering his way past one, Arthur clashes with another, the force of the blow sending a shockwave through his whole arm. There are so many of them, but he has to press on, trying to get to where he can see Leon fighting the black-clad man. He knows he isn't going to make it when three Saxons loom into his line of sight, blocking his path and giving him crazed grins from underneath their helmets and masks. 

Arthur takes a deep breath, lifting his sword to ready, when suddenly all three men are thrown off their feet, flying backwards through the air. Two years ago, Arthur would have hesitated, too startled to press his advantage. Now, he just glances over his shoulder, gives Eric an acknowledging nod, and starts to run again. Halfway to his target, he meets Elyan, the other man's eyes bright with determination and his sword already bloody.

"Stay with Eric," Arthur shouts over the din of clashing metal and screaming around them. "Give him some protection."

Elyan doesn't speak, just nods and pushes past Arthur. If Eric is using his magic alongside his sword, he risks leaving himself vulnerable, and he will need someone to watch his back. Knowing that Elyan will understand that, Arthur can put Eric out of his mind and concentrate on the task in hand.

He reaches Leon just as he falls to the ground, thrown backwards by a kick that had more force than Arthur would have expected from someone of the black-clad man's stature and age. His suspicions are confirmed when the man turns his head and Arthur can see the druidic tattoo on his neck, the broad spiral dark and clear. He's instantly glad he left Eric behind because he can sense the power coming from this man, and knows Eric would not be a match for it. 

Not that Arthur overestimates his own strength against magic, but he has an advantage that the druid can't know about. He moves in swiftly, catching the blow intended for Leon and forcing the man back again, seeing the flash of surprise in his eyes. He’ll know even from that first exchange that Arthur is no ordinary knight with an ordinary sword, and that whatever magic he’s using won’t work here. 

On the other hand, his swordsmanship doesn’t seem to need the support of magic to make it deadly, judging by the speed at which he comes back at Arthur, his sword sweeping forwards in an arc that makes Arthur jump backwards, swaying to avoid the blow. He’s good, and Arthur comes at him with renewed respect and force, making each swing harder than it really needs to be. He has youth and strength on his side, driving the man back with every stroke. It only takes a few blows for him to know that he really does have the upper hand, that this is not a man used to facing an opponent who can truly match him and that he is too out of practice at fighting without magic. 

Just in case Arthur hadn’t made his point forcefully enough, he parries a wild thrust and uses the blow’s own momentum to sweep the sword from the druid’s hand. Changing direction quickly, Arthur swings back up with both hands around the hilt of his sword, not able to bring the blade around, but slamming the pommel under the man’s chin, snapping his head back and sending him reeling away. It’s satisfying, Arthur has to admit, glancing around for the others.

Percival is standing next to Leon, half-holding him up by the looks of the way their shoulders are pressed together. Across the clearing, Elyan and Eric are fighting back to back, Eric using his magic as much as his sword, sweeping his hand in an arc the way Arthur has seen Merlin do a hundred times before, and the sight of the two men, knight and sorcerer fighting as one unit, makes something in Arthur’s stomach flip over. Eric is as good as Arthur had told him he was, even if his blows aren't as strong as Arthur is used to seeing. That's not his problem now, though, and Elyan is making short work of those not swept off their feet. 

Arthur forces his eyes away, taking in the frantic fighting and the already diminished number of knights. Hopefully at least some of them will have gone for the horses, although the number of bodies on the ground suggests that this is more than just a rout, All he can hope is that it will be less than a slaughter. 

He turns just in time to see the three men coming at him from behind, swinging their swords with impressive force and no finesse whatsoever. It’s easy to defend himself against the first blow, and then he is fighting on instinct, moving to intercept strikes almost before they are made, each move signalled clearly to him as though they were shouting their moves aloud. It doesn’t make them less dangerous, and he feels every strike all the way to his shoulder, his sword moving as though of its own accord, pulling him into the flow of the fight.

Arthur doesn't feel the pain at first. One moment he’s trying to step out of the way of a crashing blow, twisting his body sideways. The next, his arms and legs seem to have stopped obeying him and he is crashing to the ground, landing hard on his shoulder and rolling helplessly onto his back, not entirely sure what just happened. It’s only when he sees the druid standing over him, the mace raised and ready, that realises he’s been hit, some of the pain making itself known as his vision starts to grey. He won’t survive a second blow.

The world is fading away, and it’s from a great distance that Arthur sees Percival slam into the druid, knocking him to the ground. Then everything lurches, disappearing for a moment as someone grabs his arm, hauling him into his feet. There’s a growl of, "Move!" in his ear, making his feet carry him forwards, not entirely of his own volition. Everything seems to shatter, breaking into fragmented images that don’t entirely make sense to him. 

Leon and Percival carefully circling the druid, who has picked himself up and is swinging the mace again, somewhat wildly.

Elyan and Eric, still back to back, still surrounded by snarling Saxons. 

Two knights with their backs to him, red cloaks swirling as they swing their swords in tandem. 

Horses suddenly appearing in the middle of the skirmish, obviously panicked by the chaos.

Gwaine’s face, too close and too worried, leaning in towards him, shaping words that Arthur can’t hear. 

Then he blinks, and this time, he can’t seem to get his eyes open again, so really, it’s easier to just sink fully into the darkness.

~

In the half-light of the hall, it is hard for Merlin to tell whether he is asleep or awake, the shadows from the torches making crazed shapes across the walls and floors, highlighted or outshone by the pre-dawn light filtering through the high windows. He’s still burning inside and out from the poison, passing the night in fevered dreams, although nothing as terrible as the vision he saw under Morgana’s magic. He’s fairly sure he’s awake now, though, even if in his current state that doesn’t guarantee that what he’s seeing is real.

He’s sure it can’t be when there is movement at the far end of the hall, a shadow creeping along the wall at a steadier pace than the ones cast by the torches. With a grunt of effort, he lifts his head a little, trying to force his eyes to focus on whatever is casting it. When he finally finds it, he changes his mind, because this has to be a dream, and one of the nastier ones.

It’s only when Aithusa is close to the cage, allowing him to see her even when he can’t hold his head up any longer, that he accepts what he’s seeing as real, and closes his eyes against it. The fever dreams were better than this. 

There’s a sound from Aithusa that might be a strangled cry, rattling and mournful and full of such pain that Merlin squeezes his eyes shut, not caring that it makes them water and sting. 

"Please," he says, his own voice hoarse. "Please, no."

When there is no reply, he takes a few steadying breaths, then opens his eyes again, staring up at the roof of the cage for a long time before making himself roll over. It hurts, which is good, it’s real and definite and grounding, reminding him that what he’s seeing must really be there. The pain that comes from looking at Aithusa is all in his heart, even if it makes his stomach clench and his hands curl into fists so tight that his nails dig into his palms. 

"What happened to you?" he whispers. There’s no reply, just a swing of Aithusa’s head from side to side. Her formerly bright white skin is dull, flaking in patches, the scales peeling off. She’s holding her head low, as though keeping it just a scant few inches from the ground is taking tremendous effort, and her face is sunken, ears flattened and almost invisible. It’s as though Merlin is looking through her, at the bones and sinew that hold her together, everything that outwardly made her Aithusa faded and damaged. 

She swings her head back towards him, and his breath catches as he looks into her eyes. They are red-rimmed, all the colour retreated to just a thin rim around the huge pupil, and they seem to have sunk too deep into her head. There are none of the ridges or spikes that Kilgharrah has, as though they have all been rubbed away somehow, leaving her looking gaunt and hollowed out. 

Carefully, Merlin manages to sit up, his head spinning a little, but he doesn’t dare look away from her, not for a second. For three months, he felt such an overwhelming urge to find her that he could think of nothing else. He abandoned his duties in Camelot, the requests and petitions of the druids, spending every waking hour with Kilgharrah to meditate and search, desperately hoping for the lead that would let him find her. Now that he is here, he cannot believe that he didn’t feel whatever distress it was that caused her such damage.

"Please," he says, reaching a hand out towards her. His skin burns when it touches the bars, whether from cold or magic he can’t tell, and doesn’t care. "Tell me."

It takes her two limping steps to get close enough to the cage for him to touch her, her skin rough under his, almost clammy with cold. She closes her eyes as he shifts forwards, running his hand up her head to stroke along her ears and down her cheek again. 

_"Emrys."_

The word isn’t spoken aloud, just whispered into his mind, but it makes Merlin jump badly enough to hit his arm against the bars again, the contact making him cry out and pull back. Rubbing the sting away, he looks up into Aithusa’s eyes again, and it is like looking into the depths of his own soul. It's not just pain that he can feel, although now she is so close, he can feel it rolling off her in waves. There's a guilt there as well, lying underneath it all and whether it is hers or his, he can't tell. He can't imagine what she could possibly feel guilty about.

"What happened?" he asks again, this time reaching out with his mind instead, keeping his shaking arms wrapped around his body. A second later, he realises that might have been a mistake, but there is no sense of burning, none of the agonising itching that his magic has caused him before. Feeling a little bolder, he presses harder against that sense of Aithusa that he has had for three months now, only realising a moment that he is mimicking the movement with his body, pushing the heel of his hand against his chest, just above his heart. 

Aithusa takes a shuffling step away, dropping her head, and he feels the distress from her rising to a peak. He doesn’t want to hurt her, however much he wants answers, so he backs off a little, trying to make the contact more soothing, safer. He’s supposed to protect her, after all. 

Some of that must get through to her, because she settles again, keeping her head down even as he feels her mind reach out to his. It’s a colder, sharper contact than he’d expected, full of ice and shadows. No, he realises, closing his eyes dizzily. The ice and shadows are in her memories. 

It’s cold down here, always so cold, and the darkness is almost constant. Behind his - Aithusa’s - back, Merlin can feel stones, the chill from them seeping into his flesh and the constant drip-drip of water. He shifts, trying to get away from it, only to find that there is nowhere to go. His body is curled around, and there is no space anywhere. From the tip of his tail all the way to the top of his head, he can feel the rough press of the stonework, and beneath him, there is nothing but clinging mud. a well, then. Small and circular and so deep that when he raises his head, there is only a tiny circle of light above him, showing where the day is shining bright beyond the well’s cover. 

Along his back and left side he is cold, but on his right, there is something warmer, softer. He can’t see anything in this darkness, only feel the cloth against his clammy skin, the occasional small movement that tells him he is not down here alone. As his senses adjust, he feels it more strongly, the sense of another mind against his, the comfort of two souls clinging together in the dark. He is terrified, frightened by the confinement and the isolation, needing to stretch so much that he has to move, unfurling his wings just a little and trying to get his balance in the mud enough to pull at least one of his feet free. It’s a struggle, and when each movement seems to make him sink a little deeper, it starts to turn into real panic, rising up from the bottom of his soul until he can’t think straight. 

"Shhhh. It’s all right. Aithusa, it’s all right."

The voice is soft and soothing, gentle and cutting through his panic. The other mind touches his again, a calm caress, bringing him back from the edge until his breathing evens out again and he settles back, his head resting on something soft and dry, even though it bends his neck at an awkward angle. He doesn’t care because he needs this, needs to know that he is not alone down here in the dark, and he lets himself be gentled by the sound of Morgana’s voice.

Merlin falls back into his own mind with a jerk, the shock of it dropping him painfully back onto his elbows. The hurt in his body is secondary to the pain in his mind, his and Aithusa’s caught up together still. The pain is going to have to wait, though, because what he mostly feels now is angry, and that’s all coming from him. It’s a fury that starts deep in the depths of his soul, where the power that commands the dragons' lives, and it’s a magic that can’t be bound by Morgana’s prison.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

"No." The word is just a whisper for the moment, a hoarse denial that’s quickly followed by a blaze of anger so strong that for a moment, he can’t see anything. He struggles to his feet, his body still shaky from the poison, driven by a force that won’t be denied. "No." It’s stronger this time, more sure. Now he can see Aithusa properly, the outward reminder of everything he saw in her mind, the pain of day after day of confinement, the cold fury rips through him, bursting into his mind and clearing all other thoughts aside.

Without thinking, he reaches out and grabs the bars of the cage, trying to tear past them, trying to reach Aithusa. There’s nothing rational here, nothing but the urge to protect, driven by a guilt that already knows he’s too late. Aithusa cowers away, and that make it so very much worse, that she is afraid of him, that she doesn’t trust him anymore. He’s so angry he thinks he could pull the bars from the stone with his bare hands, never mind using magic. His hands are burning, the itching under his skin reaching what should be unbearable levels, and all of it is consumed in the fire of what is becoming an unstoppable rage. He’s only been close to this once before, when Morgana used Lancelot’s shade to nearly ruin everything for Arthur and Gwen, and he’d managed to take his frustration out on a tree stump rather than anyone close to him. 

It’s that memory, the stump disappearing under the sheer force of his power, as though it had never existed, that pulls him up short, cutting the anger off at its source. Like this, he knows that he could tear the castle apart, destroy anything that stood in his way, and that it would feel so good. He could just give in to the magic welling up inside him, the dragonlord instinct that is screaming _protect, protect, protect_ and the power that would give him the means to do it, that is desperate to be free after being caged and confined. 

He cries out as the burning in his hands becomes too much, dropping to his knees on the floor of the cage. Without his anger to shield him, he feels everything at last, the itch like red-hot needles under his skin, the flare in his mind that’s like the memory of distant agony. When he puts a hand to the floor to steady himself, it’s shaking. 

_"Emrys?"_

The word is definitely a question this time, echoing in his confused mind. Aithusa is creeping closer to the bars of the cage, lifting her head a little and baring her teeth, as though she is trying to speak to him but doesn’t know how. His sense of her is back, pulling at his chest again, trying to stir that surge of power that had brought him so close to breaking free. Morgana’s binding spell doesn’t seem to have affected that part of his magic at least, and he reaches out to Aithusa through the connection, trying to sooth and comfort. It’s a futile gesture, and she pulls away almost at once, turning her head away. There’s anger in his swirling senses, disappointment and something colder that makes him shiver so hard his elbow almost buckles. 

"I can’t," he whispers, willing her to understand. "It’s too much." Because if he gives in to his anger now, he has no idea where it will take him, and that thought frightens him more than Morgana ever could. 

Slowly, he shifts around, letting himself curl up and close his eyes again. Everything hurts, but it’s a real, human hurt, and he’d rather feel this than the fires of his magic right now. After a moment, he hears shuffling footsteps, his sense of Aithusa retreating further as she leaves the hall again, leaving only the echo of her sorrow and the weight of his own guilt to keep him company as beams of sunlight start to move across the walls of the hall.


	6. Betrayal

  
_A good man would prefer to be defeated than to defeat injustice by evil means._  
Sallust

It’s rare that Guinevere is grateful not to be able to sleep, but tonight, it means that she hears the clatter of hooves from the courtyard, the sound of men shouting, and she is out of bed and tying her robe before the page knocks on her door and half-falls into the room.

"Your Highness," he says breathlessly, attempting something that might have been a bow, still holding onto the door to keep his balance. "Sir Elyan, Sir Leon and Sir Eric have returned. They are asking to see you at once, your highness."

"Ask them to wait for me in the council chambers, then fetch Gaius and ask him to join us. I will come as soon as I can."

There is no time for the finery she wore to dinner last night, and even a queen’s most basic dress takes more fastening than she can manage. She is seriously considering just wrapping a shawl around herself to cover the parts that are still open, when Sefa slips into the room, flushed and breathing hard.

"I thought you might want me, my lady."

"Oh, thank goodness. Yes, please, help me." Guinevere gestures to the still untied laces and turns to let Sefa work. "This cannot be good news," she says, fixing her eyes on the wall opposite and forcing herself to hold still.

"Perhaps they bring news from the king." There is an unsteadiness in Sefa’s voice, though, and her hands are fumbling with the fastenings on Guinevere’s dress.

No longer able to stand it, Guinevere turns and puts her hands over Sefa’s. "Leave them. Fetch me the white stole from the chest and that will have to do." She waits and lets Sefa arrange it carefully, sure that she is decent enough for someone who has been roused from bed in the middle of the night, and sure that whatever is she is about to hear, her clothing is going to be the least of her worries. 

Leon and Elyan jump to their feet as she enters the council chambers, and Eric straightens from where he has been standing behind them, his eyes fixed on the floor. As soon as she sees them, muddy and worn, a streak of blood across Leon’s forehead and the obvious damage to Elyan’s mail, she forgets everything but relief that they are alive, and practically throws herself into Elyan’s arms. 

"I’m fine," he says into her hair, holding her tight for a moment before releasing her. "Please, Gwen, I’m fine." He pulls back so that he can look into her face. "We were ambushed."

"Morgana and a band of Saxons attacked us as we crossed the border into Ismere," Leon says, and she can hear the weariness in his voice. 

They all turn as the doors open again and Gaius enters, nodding to Guinevere and running his eyes over the knights. 

"What has happened?"

But there’s a more important question for her than that. "Where is Arthur?"

The silence is the only answer she needs, and the looks on their faces just confirms it as true. Someone puts a hand on her arm, and she looks down at it, then up into Elyan’s face.

"We tried to protect him."

"I’m sorry, my lady." Eric takes a step forwards, holding onto the back of one of the chairs. "They had a sorcerer with them, a druid, and there were so many of them."

A trickle of cold fear starts to run down Guinevere's spine, but she keeps her face as calm as she can. Right now, she needs to know what happened without becoming distracted.

"We were outnumbered and outmatched," Leon says, cutting across Eric with a firmness that makes Guinevere frown. This sounds like a conversation they have had several times already. "There was nothing any of us could have done."

She is almost light-headed now, only Elyan’s hand on her arm keeping her steady. "What are you saying?" she asks, needing to hear it. 

"We lost him in the battle," Elyan says, and the way he says it stirs hope in Guinevere’s heart, for all that it is bad news. "We don’t know what happened to him or Gwaine. It’s like they just disappeared."

She shouldn’t be relieved, because missing is not necessarily better than dead. Even so, she takes a deep breath, feeling her worst fears recede just a little. Deep down, she has always suspected that if he were dead, she would know somehow, and while she is still desperately worried, it is some comfort that this time, at least, she is right.

"How could Morgana have known? How could she have known that Arthur was approaching from that direction?" It is Gaius who asks, and from the looks on Leon and Elyan’s faces, that is also something they have been talking about. Eric is still holding himself apart from them, obviously reluctant to include himself in their discussion. 

So she carefully looks away from him, away from all of them towards the doors at the other end of the hall as she says, "Someone betrayed us."

From the lack of shock on everyone’s faces, she is not telling them anything they didn’t already know. 

"The question is who," Leon says softly, his eyes fixed on her. "I am willing to swear that none of the council-"

"Of course not," she says, cutting him off with a gesture. She feels tired suddenly, her sleeplessness catching up with her all at once. "Are there others following you?"

"We lost four men." There is an almost guilty relief in Elyan's face, which Guinevere understands. For what they were facing, it could have been much worse. "And more than half the horses. We took three and left the others to follow more slowly. There were many injuries."

"Very well. We should send men to meet them, ensure their safe return." She shifts her attention to Eric, trying not to frown at his hunched shoulders and downcast expression. "Sir Eric," she says, a little louder than necessary, and is pleased to see him straighten a little, managing to look up and meet her eyes. "Please ask the Captain of the guard to attend me here at first light, and join us again then." She shook her head when he opened his mouth to protest "You should rest, and I will ask someone to come and help you with your armour. That goes for all of you," she adds, taking in Leon and Elyan with her glance. "We shouldn't make any decisions right now. Clean yourselves up, get something to eat and join me later."

Gaius comes to stand next to her as they watch the three men troop out of the hall. "I will see that their injuries are treated."

"Thank you." None of them had complained of being hurt, but Guinevere can see as well as Gaius that all three were in some kind of pain. She will trust his judgement on how serious any injuries might be, and how much more she can ask of them today. 

With Gaius, there isn't the same need for a show, to be queen first and wife second, so she crosses the few steps to the chairs and sinks into one, wrapping the shawl around her more tightly. After a moment, Gaius joins her, just sitting beside her for a long time, watching. When he speaks at last, it is softly, as though trying not to break the silence.

"You know who has betrayed us."

It doesn't need to be a question. Gaius has known her for her whole life, and can probably read her face better even than Arthur. What she is feeling now is not the swirling fear that had grabbed her at first, when she'd thought Elyan was bringing an even worse story than the one he had told. Arthur is not dead. She knows that for sure now, and whatever danger he is in, her worry will not help him in any way.

"I think I know," she says slowly, the icy coldness spreading across her chest. She is not frightened now; she is angry. "But it is not a simple thing." If she is right then there are implications, consequences, and she must be more than sure before she proceeds. 

"These things rarely are." In the half-light of the hall, Gaius looks even older than his years, worn and tired.

Guinevere reaches out and covers her hand with his. "Arthur will not stop until he finds Merlin, and nor will Gwaine. You know that."

"Of course." He pats her hand, trying to smile and managing something close. "I should go. Unless you need me?"

"No, please, Elyan can be terribly stubborn about these things. He's probably already planning the route back to Ismere."

In the middle of getting to his feet, Gaius pauses, looking down at her. "Would you let him go back?"

"Not alone." Her smile is about as convincing as Gaius', she knows. "It's fine, Gaius. We will have a council at first light to determine what must be done."

It would be easier in many ways if she didn't know what to do. Then she could take advice, consider all the options, let the decision be a collective one that she reaches along with Arthur's advisors. She would not have to take the whole weight of it onto herself. But this is something she dare not even say out loud to Gaius, not yet, not if she is right. 

There is always that glimmer of hope, of course. She might yet be wrong, and the road ahead of her may yet split into two and let her choose the easier path. It's a comforting thought for the thirty seconds that she lets herself contemplate it. 

"My lady?" 

She can't tell how long Sefa has been standing there, but when she looks up, the girl bobs an uncertain curtsey and gives her a questioning look.

"Is there anything you need, Your Highness?"

No, this is the road she must take, as much as the knowledge of it weighs heavy in her heart.

"Thank you, Sefa," she says, getting to her feet. "There will be a council at dawn. I will need to be dressed properly for it, and please see if you can rouse anyone in the kitchens to provide some food. Then I'd like you to gather a report from the stable master. We may need to send more riders after the king, and I want to know what our options are. Speak to the master here in the castle, look through the reports from the tribute we received last Beltane, and meet me in my chambers after the council meeting."

"Of course, my lady." Dipping her head again, Sefa hurries from the room, the door slamming behind her. Guinevere jumps a little at the sound, shivering in the coolness of the hall, and she realises that there is still the possibility that the decision will be taken out of her hands after all. It's that thought which rouses her and sets her moving, walking quickly out of the hall and back to her chambers. 

She may not want the choice before her, but nor will she let anyone take it from her. There are other arrangements that must be made.

~

The council goes better than she’d feared, everyone looking grimly determined as they discuss possibilities. They can mount another raid on Ismere, but there is no guarantee it will fare better than the last. They can wait and do nothing, but that will leave the kingdom in limbo until they receive news, which could take weeks. There is still the option that Arthur rejected, of mounting a full-scale assault, but that will take time to organise, which everyone fears they do not have.

A rescue mission seems the most sensible, and everyone is sure that Annis will lend her help in any way that she can. They are in the middle of a discussion of how many horses can be spared, or whether they should send men on foot, sacrificing speed for stealth, when there is a loud clamour in the courtyard outside.

Guinevere looks up and catches the eye of one of the guardsmen, who disappears out of the door, only to reappear a few seconds later with a smaller man, cloaked and practically running into the hall. Not a man, she realises a moment later, a boy. A druid boy.

He skids to a stop in front of her and bows deeply. "Your highness. I have come with Aeldred and the rest of the druid party that set out for Ismere. We heard what happened and have come to offer our aid."

This changes things, she knows, and when she looks up, she sees the same look on Gaius’ face. "Then this council is adjourned," she says, getting to her feet and starting towards the doors, drawing the druid boy with her as she walks. "Please ask Aeldred to attend me in my chambers as soon as he is ready. Gaius, Leon, please join us." When they reach the corridor, she waits, letting the others pass her. As Elyan comes through the doors, she puts a hand on his arm, drawing him aside. 

"What’s going on?" he asks, leaning his head towards hers. 

"I need you to do something for me," she says, already apologetic. "While I meet with Aeldred. We cannot have news of this getting any further."

He stops walking, turning her so that they are eye to eye. "You know who the traitor is."

"And there must be no chance for further betrayals, but I do not want to show my hand too soon."

Elyan is barely taller than her, so that his forehead nearly touches hers as he nods. She could trust anyone from the privy council with this, she knows, but at least with Elyan, she will not have to explain herself. 

"What do you want me to do?"

~

As she’d expected, Aeldred does not delay long, probably only ensuring his men and horses are attended to before joining her in her chambers. He doesn’t hesitate as he comes into the room, ignoring the servant who tries to take his cloak, and heading straight for Guinevere.

"We came as soon as we could," he says, holding out his hand and gripping her arm tightly. "We’ve only just heard about the king. I’m sorry." His brown eyes are gentle, and she manages to smile as she nods, returning his grip then releasing him. 

"Thank you," she says, gesturing for everyone to take their seats. "There is much to discuss."

Finally letting the servant relieve him of his heavy travelling cloak, Aeldred takes the offered chair then clasps his hands together, leaning forward across the table. 

"You intend to go after him, then?"

"I think we must." 

He nods slowly, eyes searching her face. "But there is something else as well."

All the talks with all the druids have been like this. Guinevere doesn’t know if it’s a side effect of their magic, that they can sense things in the air or in people’s minds, but they always know when there is something that is not being said. It suits Arthur, who prefers plain speaking and honesty, for all his court training. Oddly, it is Merlin who has always struggled with it, his need to keep his secrets still strong after all this time. 

She nods. "We have a traitor in Camelot. That is the only way Morgana could have known Arthur’s route."

Aeldred sucks in a long breath, still not looking away from her. "And do you know who this traitor is?"

"Yes." The word is more of a whisper than she’d intended. She has already said this aloud to Elyan, but that was different, that was a confidence between siblings. This is a declaration if not in open court, then at least in public, and she still does not know how much it will change. "There is only one other person who could have known, and who had the opportunity to pass the information to someone else. My maid, Sefa." There is very little shock around the table, which is a relief, that she is not the only one to have reached this conclusion. She keeps her eyes on Aeldred’s as she adds, "She is a druid."

There is a long silence. Aeldred drops his eyes at last, staring at his hands on the table, then untwisting them, letting them fall to his lap as he leans back in his chair. 

"I had hoped Emrys was wrong," he says softly, and she does not think they are words for her ears. Gathering himself, he looks across at her. "What clan is she from?" 

"I do not know, but I must assume that it is the same as the druid who was with Morgana yesterday when she ambushed Arthur and the others."

Guinevere’s heart and mind are racing. The peace with the druids is formalised and secure with many, but with others, such a thing could shatter their fragile trust. 

"You are sure of both these things?" Aeldred asks, sudden intensity in his voice. "You understand that if you accuse the druids of such a thing in public and it cannot be proved..."

"I understand very well. That is why the girl is being quietly watched instead of publicly arrested and thrown in the dungeons." Or at least, that is the idea. The fact that no one has brought a message from Elyan tells her that all is going according to plan. If Sefa bolts, he will follow her and send word when he can. "I am well aware of the difficulties this could cause between Camelot and the druids, and it is why I want your advice."

Aeldred gets to his feet, moving away from the table and pacing in the narrow space behind his chair. "There are still clans that not only are unallied, but that actively oppose Camelot. I suppose it is not entirely impossible that they could have joined with Morgana."

"It is certain," Leon says, and to his credit, when Aeldred turns to him with a look of surprised menace, he holds his ground. "There was a druid in the party that attacked us. An older man all in black who carried a sword and knew how to use it. It was he that struck Arthur down."

It takes an effort of will for Guinevere not to react to that, to look up at Aeldred expectantly and show none of the fear that washes through her. She must be Arthur’s queen if she is to guide Camelot through this, and she refuses to let him down. 

Shaking his head, Aeldred leans on the back of his chair, his shoulders slumping. "Then yes, it is likely that this girl is your traitor. The man you are talking about must be Ruadan, and yes, he has a daughter. We have long heard rumours that he survived the purge, although no one could confirm them until now." Obviously realising that he can’t leave it there, he straightens up, looking at Guinevere as he says, "Uther had their clan wiped out. They were one of the first he targeted during the purge, the first of us to fall. Ruadan and his wife led the group, and we knew she had been killed along with the rest of their people. We just assumed that Ruadan and his daughter were amongst the dead as well. You cannot blame him for his hatred of Camelot."

"There are many who have managed to set aside similar pasts and enter treaties with us," Guinevere says, keeping her voice steady. "He is not the only victim of Uther’s malice."

Aeldred holds her gaze, and she sees the conflict there, the need to defend his people and the need to hold this alliance together. She hopes that he can also see that she feels the same, that she must protect Arthur, even as she must uphold the kingdom he is trying to create.

At the other end of the table, Gaius clears his throat, breaking into the silent moment between them. "It seems to me," he says carefully, "that the important thing is what we do now. Morgana still has Merlin, and if we delay too long, she may have Arthur as well."

"No." There is flint in Guinevere’s voice as she speaks, because she needs it if she is to get the words out. "If she finds Arthur she will kill him. She will not hesitate."

"Then we must find him before she does." There is finality in the statement and in the look in Aeldred’s eyes. "I believe we can help you with that, my lady." He takes his seat again, resting his hands lightly on the table. "We were prepared to ride with the king before. That has not changed, and I believe our best chance of saving the king may well be to rescue Emrys first."

"You are prepared to send your people against Morgana directly?" It's a lot to ask, and more than she'd hoped for if she's honest.

"I am, am loathe to leave an enemy at our backs." There is a gleam in his eyes as he leans forward. "It may actually solve more than one of our problems. At the moment, you only have suspicions against this girl. If you could catch her in the act, that would give you a much stronger case and the clans would accept whatever justice you choose to mete out. It may also help the king to reach Ismere as well."

That would certainly make life easier. Guinevere leans forward as well, intrigued. "What did you have in mind?"

~

_The sword was too heavy for Guinevere really, and she had to hold it in a two-handed grip, trusting that her horse was well-trained enough not to throw her while she couldn’t hold the reins. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t even need to use the weapon, but their luck wasn’t going very well so far._

_Gripping tightly with her knees, she tried to urge her horse around, wanting to see what was happening behind her where she could hear the sound of clashing metal and men screaming. The horse shook its head, turning reluctantly just as she was starting to think she’d have to take a hand off the sword. As it was, she found it hard to concentrate on holding it when she saw Arthur, surrounded by four bandits, nearly fall from his horse as one of them swung a mace in a wide arc, the chain nearly wrapping itself around his sword. He wrenched it free with obvious effort, and the movement came close to unseating him._

_Before Guinevere could cry out, Merlin was there, forcing his horse through the crowd of men and shoving at Arthur’s shoulder with one hand, keeping him in his saddle. There was a ripple of something and suddenly all four of the bandits were flying backwards, one of them hit hard enough to fly into a nearby tree and slide, unmoving, to the ground. Four down. A couple of dozen to go._

_Arthur turned, obviously looking for her, and the sudden fear in his eyes made her swing around, bringing the sword down without thinking about it and catching the first man creeping up on her in the face with the hilt. The next man hesitated when she didn’t, and she was able to slash at him, making him jump back, although she didn’t manage to make contact. There were a few more men behind him, and another group away to her left. Too many._

_Her horse was turning without being instructed now, and she could feel the panic rising up from it. Deciding that the risk was worth it, she took one hand from the sword, scooping up the reins and trying not to pull too hard. The last thing she needed was for the animal to rear under her._

_"Do something!" Arthur shouted from somewhere behind her, and she knew he wasn’t talking to her._

_"I’m open to suggestions." Merlin sounded breathless, and a lot closer to her than she’d expected. She’d already started to look around for him when he came up beside her, his eyes flashing as he thrust his hand forwards, driving back the men starting to circle her._

_Then Arthur was on her other side, bringing his horse so close that its shoulder bumped against Guinevere’s knee. His sword was drawn, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat and he was breathing hard. With the others so close to her, Guinevere dared to let go of the reins again, settling the sword into a more comfortable grip. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going to go out without a fight._

_"Oh, hell."_

_Merlin was also almost pressed against her, so she felt as much as saw him kick his feet out of the stirrups and jump to the ground. He must have fallen straight into a crouch because he didn’t appear on the other side of his horse, and a second later, she heard a murmur of that strange language he used for magic._

__"Ic the bebiede thaet thu abifest nu." __

_At first, she wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done, then she heard it, the deep rumble that came from somewhere beneath them. Instinctively, she dropped the sword and didn’t even try to grab her reins, just threw herself flat against the neck of the horse as the ground started to shake. Something seemed to pass under the leaf litter that covered the road, a ripple in the earth that rose and grew as it swept away from them and that was followed by a surge of power so strong the air shimmered._

_Her horse bucked, trying to rear onto its hind legs but her weight kept it down, and she wrapped her arms around its neck, trying to soothe it even as the rising earth and power reached their zenith, breaking with an audible boom that hurt her ears. Not daring to move just yet, she pressed her face to the horse’s mane, patting and whispering until it settled a little, although its hooves still pawed at the earth as she sat up._

_Around her, men were groaning, scattered across the path like leaves after a storm. There was a hand on her arm, and she looked up into Arthur’s worried face._

_"I’m fine," she said, covering his hand with hers. "Arthur?"_

_"Nothing. A bit of a scratch, that’s all." She saw for the first time that there was a streak of something wet across his thigh, blood soaking into the cloth. "A scratch", he repeated, pulling his hand away and picking up his reins. "Merlin?"_

_"What?" Merlin was standing next to his horse, not looking at either of them._

_Huffing a little, Arthur nudged his horse forwards, circling around until he was next to Merlin, facing back the way they’d come. "Maybe next time, you could do that before any of my knights get hurt." When Merlin turned his head away, Arthur sighed. "You could have stopped this before it started, Merlin."_

_"Fine. Next time we come across random strangers on the road, I’ll kill them right away, just in case, shall I?"_

_Arthur gave Guinevere an exasperated look over Merlin's head, then kicked at his horse, going to see how the others were doing._

_"Merlin," Guinevere said, putting a hand out towards him. "You know that's not what he meant."_

_"Do I?" Still not looking at her, he swung himself back into the saddle, running a hand down his horse's neck. Whether it was to comfort the horse or himself, Guinevere couldn't tell._

_"You know he hates seeing people getting hurt."_

_"Do you think I like it?" He started to pull on his reins, turning the horse away, but she was quicker and grabbed him before he could turn his back._

_"Your powers are nothing to be ashamed of," she said, trying to catch his eye. "You just saved our lives."_

_He shook his head. "I'm not just some weapon for him to use, Gwen."_

_"And he doesn't see you like that. You know he doesn't." That earned her a sceptical look, but at least he was looking at her now. "But when you have power, you have to be prepared to use it. You can't always hold back."_

_He dropped his eyes again, voice not much more than a whisper. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to keep the two of you safe. To keep Camelot safe."_

_This was no empty promise, and it was best left unspoken between them that that might just be the thing that frightened him the most. So Guinevere just smiled at him, squeezing his arm a little and waiting until he met her eye to say, "I know."_

~

It's actually easy to seem preoccupied with documents so that when Sefa enters her chambers, Guinevere only glances up. What's harder is to smile, to appear relieved and even pleased to see the girl.

"Sefa, there you are. Do you have the numbers for me?"

"Yes, my lady." She crosses the room quickly, holding out a piece of parchment. 

Is her hand trembling? Is there a hesitation in her step or in her eyes as she watches Guinevere's face? Guinevere can't tell, and she doesn't want to look too hard, not wanting to risk giving anything away so instead she takes the paper with a hand that is rock steady and glances at it before adding it to her pile.

"That's excellent, thank you."

Sefa hesitates, twisting her hands together as she says, "My lady, is there news of the king?"

It’s a foolish game, watching Sefa watching her, trying to see without giving herself away. But she knows that if they are to give Arthur any chance of rescue, it is a game that she must win. Perhaps three years of court politics have their uses after all, because while Sefa looks tired and nervous, Guinevere is having no trouble schooling her own features into the right mixture of concern and relief.

"Yes, Sefa, and good news at that. The druids brought word from Annis. Apparently she told Arthur about some bolt-holes that her people use in time of unrest, and she is sure that he will have made his way to one of them. Look." She pulls a map to the top of the pile, running her fingers across it as Sefa comes to lean over her shoulder. "The ambush took place here, and there is a refuge here, not two miles away. I’m sure Arthur will be there, and Aeldred has offered to send a party of druids with the knights." She knows exactly how she sounds, the concerned wife who can’t stop herself gushing with relief. It’s not a hard role to play. Harder is not leaning away as Sefa bends over her, not letting her anger, her disappointment show in her face.

Hopefully ignorant of Guinevere’s internal battle, Sefa straightens up again, turning to smile at her. "That’s such good news. You must be very happy, my lady."

"Well, I’ll be happier once he’s home, but yes, it’s a weight off my mind for sure." She rearranges the papers on her desk, concentrating on maintaining her slightly flustered air. "But there is much still to do. Please could you arrange for the kitchens to send up a tray for lunch, then I don’t think I’ll be needing you for the rest of the day. You look tired," she adds, giving the girl a concerned smile. "Take some time, get some sleep while you can. I don’t expect to see you until tomorrow morning."

It’s not such a great indulgence. She’s always been generous to her maids, and having woken her in the middle of the night, it’s not too implausible that she would dismiss her for the rest of the day. If Sefa thinks there is anything unusual about it, it doesn’t show in her eyes, which are truly weary as she nods.

"Thank you, my lady."

Guinevere has her head down again by the time the door closes, and it’s only then that she lets herself lean back in her chair, staring unseeingly at the papers on the table. Her part in this is done for now, but she knows that if all goes to plan, there is more and much worse to come. It would be easier if she didn’t like Sefa, hadn’t trusted her so much. As it is, she must set those thoughts aside and concentrate on other things. The expedition really must be mounted, and she really must know what resources they will have available to them. If she is to present the plan to the council in an hour - as she must - then she needs to know everything by then.

Groaning a little, she sits up again and starts to sort through the papers once more. At least the work will be a welcome distraction from her worries.

~

The doors to the hall have opened and closed so many times that Merlin has given up paying them any attention. Usually it is just a soldier, a man in the rough furs and leather that pass for armour around here, presumably checking that he hasn’t managed to die when no one was looking. Once, he is brought some more food and another skin of water, which he drinks from after only a moment’s hesitation. He will die of thirst if he does not have water, and he does not want Morgana forcing it down him. It feels like a long time since he saw her, although he has no way of truly knowing how much time has passed, slipping in and out of sleep and more of the troubled dreams.

This time though, the doors do not simply open, they are thrown back on their hinges with enough force to sweep them all the way back to the wall. The crash makes Merlin jerk into full awareness, the cage around him shaking as though rattled by a great hand. 

"Where is he?" Sweeping across the room, Morgana stops at arm’s distance from the cage, her face pale apart from two bright spots on colour high on her cheeks. Her eyes are full of fury.

It takes considerable effort for Merlin to sit upright, and it takes him a moment to understand what she is asking. When he does, he can’t help it; a slow smile creeps across his face. 

The cage rattles again as Morgana takes a step closer. "Where is he?" Her eyes flare and Merlin is hit with a sudden jolt of that searing pain again, ripping through him and leaving him breathless.

He coughs a little, half-laughing with it. "I don’t know how you think I’m supposed to know, Morgana. It’s not like I’ve been anywhere." The pain is making him light-headed, as is the relief. Because if she is this angry, then she truly has no idea where Arthur might be.

"Tell me where he is."

The pain knocks the laughter out of him this time, wracking his body and leaving him lying twitching on the floor. It takes an effort of will to just pull air into his lungs, and he can’t even think about opening his eyes, so when Morgana speaks again, much closer this time, he jumps a little, sending another spasm through his aching muscles. "I know you know, Merlin. And if you don’t, I know you can find out."

"Morgana." He has to force the word out, still not opening his eyes so he can concentrate on speaking. "Even if I could, I have no idea why you think I would tell you anything."

She is silent for long enough that Merlin has to open his eyes a fraction, just to see what she is doing. This close, he can see the unnatural pallor of her skin, the drained blue of her eyes, and the memory of what he saw in Aithusa's mind rushes through him, making him wince.

Morgana frowns a little. "What is it?" she asks, and when he tries to turn away, she leans closer, pressing her hand to the bars of the cage. "Show me." Her mind presses against his, and without his magic, he has no defence against her.

Rather than try to keep her out, he concentrates on the memory, bringing into sharp focus all the images and emotions that he has been trying not to think about. It should be satisfying to hear her gasp and draw back, but he can't find it in him to be pleased, not about this. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers, ignoring the sense of scorn that washes over him at his words. 

"Save your pity for yourself," she says, and he feels the scorn pushed aside, replaced with a hot flash of anger. "Tell me where Arthur is, or I will take it from you."

She's trying to, he knows. There are ways to control another person, to get inside their minds and their magic so that they become your vessel. When she'd used the Formorragh to control him it had been simple, mindless even, his will simply replaced with hers. This time, he knows it will not be a peaceful passage into darkness, not if she really can find a way to use his magic. He doesn't doubt that he can find Arthur; he always can. What he doubts is if he can stop her from using him to do so.

It's strange, fighting magic without being able to use his own, as though there is something crawling under his skin, making him writhe as it worms its way into him. Trying to form a spell takes more concentration than he has, and even if he could manage it, the reaction would only leave him more vulnerable to Morgana's attack. Still, he has to try, has to stop her from using him like this, and he's never needed words for magic anyway. Reaching for it is strange without being able to sense the world around him, only his own power coming to his call. It feels too thin and fragile, like vellum pulled too tight on its stretchers, ready to tear apart when pressure is put on just the right spot. His skin is on fire, the heat spreading to his mind and he knows he can't hold out for long like this

There's a surge of power that feels like it's turning him inside out, then the pressure is gone, the relief almost as dizzying as the pain. Over the rush of blood in his ears, he can make out voices in the hall, a man speaking in a firm, low voice then Morgana's higher counterpoint. Somehow he forces his trembling arms to move, dragging himself painfully over to look across to where the voices are coming from.

The druid, Ruadan, is holding something out to Morgana, and she is nodding slowly.

"That makes sense. I will tell the captain to have his men ready to go out again." She hesitates, tilting her head a little. "What is it?"

Ruadan is shaking his head, obviously uncertain about something. "I don't know. Sefa sent this from Camelot itself rather than waiting for our usual meeting place. It was a great risk."

"And you fear it was a risk too far?" When he says nothing, Morgana places a hand on his arm. The gesture is not unkind but even from here, Merlin can hear the steel in her voice as she says, "Whatever happens to her, there is no greater glory than giving your life for a cause that is right. She has proved herself to be a worthy daughter, and there is nothing more you can do for Sefa until we retake Camelot, when we must hope we will see her again." 

Over-sensitive as he is, Merlin feels the twin flare of emotions flow through the room, Morgana's frustration and Ruadan's fear. He closes his eyes against them, trying to breathe deeply enough to force some of the shaking from his limbs. In the darkness, he hears footsteps and he lets himself sink a little deeper, grateful for the respite as Morgana leaves the hall. As long as she is focussed on Arthur, he has a chance to gather himself a little.

"Emrys."

The voice makes him jump, again, and he opens his eyes enough to see Ruadan crouched by the cage, a piece of parchment crumpled in his hand. Merlin closes his eyes again and turns his face away.

"What do you want?" His voice is hoarse, and he wonders if he cried out under Morgana's power earlier. It's all a bit blurry.

"My daughter." Ruadan hesitates, and Merlin hears him swallow. "I must know what has happened to her."

Confused, Merlin wonders just how much Morgana has addled his brain, because Ruadan is making no sense. "Why are you asking me?"

"Because you are Emrys, and I know you have the power to see these things."

It would be funny if the whole situation wasn't so hopeless. As it is, Merlin's mouth curls into something like a smile as he shakes his head. "I thought you didn't believe in that prophesy."

There is a long silence before Ruadan says, "Arthur Pendragon should never have been allowed to become king of Camelot. But that does not mean I do not know what you are capable of."

Since at the moment, Merlin barely feels capable of breathing, he’s not entirely sure that’s an accurate statement. He flinches as something is pressed into his hand, and he feels the rough dryness of the parchment against his skin. Strong fingers close around his and more encircle his wrist, holding it down. 

"There," Ruadan says, tightening his grip a little. "This is the note Sefa wrote to me. She held it, touched it. I know that you can use it."

Merlin has done this before, traced someone just by holding something that belonged to them. It’s not that much of a trick, and it doesn’t even require much power, but that’s still more than he has at the moment. Weakly, he shakes his head.

"Even if I could," he says, each word a huge effort, "why would I?"

"Please."

There is a desperation in the way he says it that draws Merlin’s attention, almost despite himself, and he’s turned his head before he’s really thought about it, opening his eyes and trying to focus on the other man. Ruadan is crouched by the cage, face almost pressed to the bars as he leans forward to keep his hold on Merlin’s hand. The expression on his face is not so different to one Merlin has seen on a hundred petitioners, all sure that he can help them, that he must help them, because he is Emrys, and because this is what he does, this is what he is _for_. 

Merlin shakes his head. "I can’t," he says, letting his eyes flick to the roof of the cage and back, trying not to let his hope show. Ruadan cannot be a fool, not if he has been working with Morgana all this time, but his need to know what has happened to his daughter may just blind him enough to make a mistake. "Not like this."

He hears Ruadan take a deep breath before saying, "If the binding is lifted, she will know." There is a rustling, and the pressure on Merlin’s hand withdraws, letting him flex his fingers against the ache in them. It’s a brief respite, though, because Ruadan is back after a moment, settled more comfortably on his knees by the cage, his gloves discarded. This time when he touches Merlin’s hand, there is a thrum of power beneath his skin. 

It’s instant, shocking relief, more than just the cessation of pain. There’s warmth spreading through Merlin’s body, magic rushing into to soothe and comfort, wrapping his mind so that he feels eased and comforted. He closes his eyes against the dizziness, just feeling the flow of power as it sustains him as it always does. He’s floating, too tired to do more than drift in the supportive hold of the magic, and so it takes him a moment to notice that something is nudging at him, guiding him to focus his mind again. 

He’d forgotten that this is not his power, that while Ruadan is letting him access some of his magic, Merlin is not the one in control here. When he does realise, he tries to struggle against it, to pull away and retreat back into the comforting embrace, but he no longer has the strength. The crumpled ball of parchment digs into his fingers as he clenches his fist, trying to resist its pull even as he’s pulled along by the current of Ruadan’s need. They both realise at the same time that it’s not enough, that weak as he is, Merlin can’t quite summon the strength to reach out far enough. Distantly, he hears Ruadan take another deep breath, muttering words under his breath as he opens his mind more fully.

The power slams into Merlin like water released from a dam, tugging at him and dragging him along with so much force that he has to gasp for air. His power sometimes feels like this when he’s tired, as though it will carry on without him, whether he wants it to or not. And here and now, he doesn't have the energy to direct it, letting it take him where it will, starting out unfocused but slowly pulled by the residual sense he's picking up from the paper in his hand. Another surge of power rises, and he realises it's not the present that's important, that's not what he needs to see, so he turns his head, looking back until he finds what he needs.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

_The late afternoon light is flooding the hall, making the stones glow. Merlin is standing in crowd of people, all of them with worried, serious expressions and muttering amongst themselves. He slips past them, part of the vision but not able to interact with it, until he can see Gwen, standing in front of the throne, dressed in her finest red and looking every inch the queen. It's the look on her face that pulls him up short, a pace in front of the rest of the crowd and feeling exposed although none of them can see him. He sees Gwen's face harden as the doors at the other end of the hall are thrown open and a woman is dragged in. The crowd's muttering rises then drops away completely as the woman - Sefa, he knows from Ruadan's presence at the back of his mind - is pushed to her knees at Gwen's feet._

 _He's never seen Gwen look like this, so severe and stony, as though she is holding back everything that makes her_ Gwen _so that she can be_ Queen Guinevere _. He shivers, and realises it's not his own fear but Sefa's as she lifts her head, staring up into Gwen's eyes._

_"My lady, what have I done?" There is real anguish in Sefa's voice and her fingers twist into the folds of her skirt._

_Gwen's voice is as calm and cool as her expression. "The night before Arthur set out for Ismere there was a meeting of the King's Privy Council. Did you hear what was said?"_

_"No, my lady."_

_"And then today, after I showed you where we believe the king to be sheltering, where did you go?"_

_"I was in my room, my lady. Resting as you said I could." But the tremor in her voice gives her away._

_"And yet you were seen by three of the knights of the city writing a message and releasing a bird from the southern battlements. Who was the message for?"_

_"No one."_

_"Was it the same person you went to meet two nights ago when I saw you leaving the city?"_

_At that, some of the fight goes out of Sefa, her shoulders slumping and her gaze dropping to the floor. "I can't say."_

_"Who is it? You can tell me." Gwen's voice softens a little, dangerously so. If they weren't in front of the whole court, Sefa on her knees and Gwen standing over her, regal and commanding, they could be two friends sharing a confidence._

_"You wouldn't understand."_

_The dam breaks. Just those three words are enough, Merlin knows. Sefa will not be able to pretend any longer, and Gwen has the confirmation she needs, so that when she speaks again, her words ring out, harsh and loud in the quiet hall._

_"Who is it?"_

_"My father. It's my father."_

_There's something in Gwen's eyes as Sefa lifts her head, as though this was not the answer she'd expected._

_"And you told him where to find the king, knowing that he would kill him if he could?" Although Gwen's voice has returned to its silky softness, there's something stiff about the words that Merlin recognises, and a chill goes down his spine. This is not just an investigation; this is a trial._

_"Arthur Pendragon's hands are covered in innocent blood. He has no right to rule over those he has so grievously wronged."_

_"Arthur has sought forgiveness for his past wrongs and shown mercy to those who have wronged him. I fear I cannot be so generous." Gwen takes a step back, putting some distance between herself and the girl slumped on the floor. "You have admitted your guilt. You leave me no choice, Sefa. By the laws of Camelot, I find you guilty of treason. I sentence you to death. Take her to the cells."_

_There is a ripple of murmuring around the hall, and Merlin finds himself moving forwards, wanting to speak to Gwen, ask her what she's doing. He's stopped by a pang of anguish so strong that it cuts through his mind, making him gasp._

When the vision is gone, he is lying on the floor of the cage once more, Ruadan's grip on his wrist so tight that it feels like he is grinding the bones together. The pain and anger are receding, drawing back as Ruadan gets control of himself. 

Merlin knows that he should be exhausted. He’s barely eaten in four days, he’s been cut off from his magic and pushed into pain so often that his muscles twitch when he tries to rest. The effort of summoning a vision from such a long distance and backwards in time should have drained him completely. Even on a good day, it’s not the kind of thing that he would attempt lightly. 

Except that with the magic coursing through him again, strong and sure, he can feel the missing parts of himself being brought back, filling the emptiness at the core of his soul. It’s more than just refreshing; he feels light-headed from the rush of energy. In a moment, he knows that he could heal every injury, break free of this cage and possibly rip this whole castle apart, the power he has access too is so great. Without thinking, he reaches for more of it, greedy and dizzy with need. 

He’d forgotten Ruadan. The hand on his wrist tightens in surprise for a second, then releases him just as quickly, cutting the flow of power. It’s like being doused in icy water, the shock of it making Merlin gasp and roll away, shaking his head against the sudden feeling of falling back into his own body. Coming up to his knees, he runs his shaking hands over his face before risking a glance at the other man. 

Ruadan is sitting on the cold stone floor, looking as though he fell there when he let go of Merlin’s wrist. He is staring at Merlin with an unreadable expression, fear, surprise and something else trying to fight their way to the surface. 

"What are you?" he asks, gathering himself enough to get to his feet. "The legends say-"

"I know what they say." His voice is steady for the first time, and when Merlin tries to stand, his knees no longer threaten to buckle underneath him. "You probably know them better than I do. What do you think?"

"Emrys." The word isn’t much more than a whisper. "It isn’t possible."

"You tell me." In the past three years, Merlin has heard every possible variation on this legend, not to mention all the prophecies that go along with it. Few of them have brought him much cheer. "What will you do about your daughter?" he asks, coming closer to the bars so that he can see Ruadan better.

"She is another victim of the Pendragons. There is nothing I can do." Five minutes ago, Merlin might have believed the apparent conviction in that statement.

"If you find Arthur first," he says, leaning forwards as much as he dares. "If you were to help him, I’m sure he would forgive-"

The movement is so quick that Merlin jumps back, startled as Ruadan presses against the bars of the cage. "I do not require Arthur Pendragon’s forgiveness," he hisses, and just as suddenly, he is gone, striding towards the doors of the hall, leaving Merlin to stare after him. 

Although he can’t feel the swirl of magic any more, he still feels alert and awake, body and mind buzzing with the after effects. Carefully, he tries reaching for his magic, just enough to move the ball of paper that Ruadan left behind. It hurts a little, the burning itch building under his skin again, but the paper skitters towards him, jumping into his open hand. He gives himself a moment to let the itching die away again, and when he takes half a step back, his foot falls on something hard and sharp. 

The remains of the silver chain are still lying on the floor of the cage, shining unnaturally bright in the dim light. Slowly, Merlin bends and picks up the links that are still joined together, a stretch of chain long enough to reach from wrist to elbow. It feels cold against his skin, unnaturally so, and he lifts it a little higher, letting it catch the light. 

" _Frica_ ," he says, gritting his teeth against the burn as the chain jerks and twists in the air. He can’t maintain it for long, and he doesn’t want to wear himself out too soon. After a moment, he releases the power, letting the chain hang loose from his hand and watching it swing back and forth as he lets the stinging subside. 

Another moment, and he gathers up the chain and tucks it into his pocket, keeping his hand wrapped around it there. There is something at the back of his mind, now, too small to be called hope just yet. All he has to do now is work out exactly what it is.


	7. Flight

  
_When the character of a man is not clear to you, look at his friends._  
Japanese Proverb

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

It’s the cold that wakes Arthur, making his teeth chatter before he can quite work out what’s happening. When he shivers violently enough to hit his head on something hard, he makes himself open his eyes, wincing a little as another bolt of pain makes its way from the top of his head all the way down his back.

With his blurry vision, he can make out a small fire by his feet, its pathetic flames doing absolutely nothing to keep him warm. 

"Is that your idea of a fire?" he asks, his voice croaky but loud enough to make Gwaine start, jerking out of wherever his head had been.

"Well if you hadn’t slept most of the day, you would have seen it at its best," he says, narrowing his eyes at Arthur. "How do you feel?"

"Like I got hit on the head by a maniac with a mace." He coughs a little, and then accepts Gwaine’s hand to help him sit up. "Where are we?"

"A mile, maybe a little more, to the north of where we were. You got this far then just sort of..." Gwaine raises his arm then lets it fall. "Like a felled tree, you were. And I wasn’t about to carry you so we’ve been camped out here, waiting for you to finish your beauty sleep." His tone is light, but there’s wariness in his eyes that Arthur understands. Blows to the head are often deceptive and always dangerous. 

Slowly, Arthur turns his head from side to side, trying to feel where it hurts the most before lifting a hand to press carefully at the lump just above the base of his skull. 

"I’m alright," he says to the question Gwaine didn’t ask. "I mean, I feel like half the soldiers of Camelot are marching through my head, but I’m alright."

"Then we should move. There's at least 2 hours of daylight left, such as it is." Without waiting for a reply, Gwaine stands, holding out his hand again and hauling Arthur to his feet. The world spins a little, and the marchers seem to double their pace, so he grits his teeth against the pain and makes himself look around. 

"We carry on to Ismere," he says, stopping his slow inspection of their surroundings so he can look Gwaine in the eye. 

"Seriously? Like this?" When Arthur opens his mouth to reply, Gwaine takes a step away from him, releasing his grip and letting Arthur sway for a moment before he can get his balance. "What are you going to do? Ask Morgana nicely if you can have Merlin back and fall on her if she says no?"

"You think we’d stand a better chance heading back to Camelot? You think she won’t have patrols on every road, men in every town? We might as well paint targets on our backs."

They glare at each other for a long moment, and it’s Gwaine who looks away first. "Just because it’s the less stupid thing to do doesn’t make it a good idea."

"I know." Arthur straightens a little, the jab of pain actually helping to clear his foggy head. "But Annis’ people are still at Ismere. If we can get to them, we’ll have an army."

"We’ll have a bunch of peasants in a bad mood." For all his grumbling, Gwaine starts to stamp out the fire, picking up his sword belt and buckling it again. "But I suppose that’s still preferable to you in a bad mood."

"Definitely." Watching Gwaine, Arthur feels a chill go through him that has nothing to do with the air temperature. "What happened to my sword?" The number of times Merlin has told him that the sword must not fall into the wrong hands, Arthur can virtually recite the speech by heart. If he lost it on the battlefield and Morgana got her hands on it...

"Don’t wind yourself up, it’s behind you." Gwaine nods towards where Arthur was lying. "Even with most of the sense knocked out of you, you wouldn’t let go of the damn thing."

Relief washes through Arthur so quickly that he feels light headed all over again, and has to wait a moment before bending to pick the sword up. It’s only once he has it safely back in its scabbard, the comfortable weight settling over his hip, that he feels properly himself again and notices that Gwaine is shifting awkwardly, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his own sword.

"You know," he says airily, as though the thought has just occurred to him, "what we could really use at this point is someone to help us out. Preferably someone really big. Perhaps with wings?"

It occurs to Arthur that unlike most of the knights, Gwaine always refers to Kilgharrah as a 'someone' not a 'something'. While normally he'd be grateful that at least one of his men doesn't fear the dragon, right now, he doesn't want to have this conversation.

"No," he says, shaking his head carefully so that it doesn't spin too fast. "He's too big and too conspicuous. Even if I could summon him, he'd only be able to take us to the edge of Ismere, and then Morgana would know exactly where we were. We'd be sitting ducks."

"You're the boss," Gwaine says, shrugging a little as though he'd expected an answer like that. He's smiling with an air of resigned disappointment. "We're going to walk it then?"

"We are." With a last glance at the sky and the rapidly growing dark, Arthur turns until he's facing the right way and the pounding in his head has reached manageable proportions. Then he turns to Gwaine and gives him what he hopes is a firm, decisive nod. "To Ismere."

"To Ismere," Gwaine echoes, gesturing for Arthur to lead the way.

~

Arthur loves his knights, he really does. He knows that any of them would go to hell and back for him, and they have all proved their mettle in the last three years. He loves every one of them like a brother, hoping that they know he would repay their faithfulness in any way he can.

But after an hour, he’s starting to remember why he usually makes Gwaine take the rear guard on long journeys.

"...not that she minded of course," he says, and Arthur doesn’t have to look to know the suggestive tilt of his eyebrows. "But it seemed a little rude after travelling all that way. So I found a charming young-"

"Are you even vaguely aware that we’re fleeing for our lives from a sorceress with more power in her little finger than in both of us combined?"

Unperturbed by Arthur’s interruption, Gwaine shrugs. "She’s not here right now, is she? Anyway, you’re exaggerating. You've got that sword, haven’t you? That’s got to be equal to at least Morgana’s little finger, maybe her whole hand."

It takes a good deal of self-control for Arthur to not just draw said sword here and now. "She might not be here in person," he says, gritting his teeth against his temper. "But she’ll have men out looking for us. Tracking us. And we’ll stand a much better chance of not being found if you’re not announcing our presence to everyone in a half-mile radius."

That at least makes Gwaine take a step back, lifting his hands possibly in surrender, possibly as a pre-emptive defensive move. "Okay, I understand. Hang onto your crown, your majesty."

"And you hang onto your tongue." Arthur means to turn on his heel and walk away, but the movement is too fast for his still-aching head, and he stumbles a little when his vision blurs. Before he can fall, Gwaine’s hand is on his elbow, steadying him until the world stops spinning. 

"Looks like I should be hanging onto you," he says, waiting for Arthur’s nod before stepping away. "You should stop and rest for a while." 

"There’s still too far to go and we've got at least an hour of light left," Arthur replies automatically. He knows Gwaine is right, that they should find something to eat and settle in for the night, get what sleep they can. Except he can’t, when every time he closes his eyes he sees the same dark-haired man, the same flash of light, and hears Merlin’s scream echoing over and over inside his mind.

"Arthur?" 

It takes Gwaine shaking him for Arthur to realise he’s done it again, drifted off in the awful memory of the vision that’s become all-consuming. He nods when Gwaine says his name again, forcing himself to look the other man in the eye.

"I’m fine."

"Who are you trying to convince, you or me? Because I have to say, I’m a lost cause at this point. You can’t go on like this."

Arthur opens his mouth to argue, to tell Gwaine that it doesn’t matter how he feels, he has to get to Merlin before Morgana finds whatever she’s looking for, but the world spins again, making him swallow back nausea and nod, resigned. 

"We can’t stay in the open," he says, glancing around at the bleak landscape. "We’ll need a fire if we’re to survive the night, and they’ll see it from miles away."

Still not relinquishing his grip on Arthur’s shoulders, Gwaine turns and starts to push him down a steep incline. "We'll have enough cover at the bottom of the hollow, if you can make it that far."

They make it, with Gwaine keeping one hand wrapped around Arthur’s upper arm, tethering him to the present and not letting him trip over any roots as he stumbles towards their makeshift shelter. He lets Gwaine push him back against the bank, and manages a feeble glare when the other man lifts a finger and points at him.

"Stay," Gwaine says, as though Arthur is a particularly contrary hound. "I’m going to get us some firewood."

Staying isn’t actually a problem now that he’s down on the ground. Arthur puts his head back and closes his eyes, trying not to shiver. He tries to think about how they will get into Ismere, the possible ways in, how they will find Annis’ men; anything but the battle still raging at the back of his mind and the young man with those pale eyes. It pushes forwards just the same, the sounds of the battlefield filling his ears as he watches the sword swing inexorably towards him. Knowing what’s coming next doesn’t help, and he forces himself awake, jerking a little with the shock of it and hitting his head on the stone behind him. 

"You’ll want to stop doing that," Gwaine says from the other side of the small fire he’s got going. "I don’t want to spend another day here because you knock yourself out again."

"Thanks for the advice." Shifting close to the fire, Arthur holds his hands out towards it. "Don’t suppose you found anything to eat?"

"Not unless you’ve suddenly developed a taste for tree bark. It’s a bad time of year for foraging."

"Great."

"On the plus side, if we don’t find food tomorrow, that’ll do us in much quicker than Morgana."

"Always thinking positive, Gwaine."

In the flickering firelight, Arthur sees the glint of white teeth as Gwaine smiles. "I try." The glint disappears as Gwaine’s face grows serious. "Do you still want to press on to Ismere?" 

It’s a genuine question, Arthur knows, and it deserves a genuine answer. "I have to," he says, drawing up his knees and resting his elbows on them. "I can’t leave Merlin in Morgana’s hands for a day longer than necessary."

"That’s what you saw back at Asgorath? I know it's been eating at you, and whatever the damn dragon told you didn't help. It's something to do with Merlin?" There’s an undercurrent of tension in Gwaine’s voice, for all that he’s trying to sound casual. 

Arthur looks away. "Something like that."

"You know something that could put Merlin in danger, and you thought you’d just keep it to yourself?" 

That makes Arthur shake his head, despite the dizziness. "Always so protective."

"Yeah, well." Shifting a little, Gwaine prods at the fire a little. "He's not as careful as he should be."

"While you are a model of restraint and caution."

Gwaine shrugs, not denying it. "I look after my friends."

There's no getting answers out of him when he's like this, so Arthur settles back a little, trying to get comfortable. "The day we took Camelot back from Morgana, after the battle, after everything." He waves a hand, not really wanting to re-live the desperate fight in the throne room, the way Morgana and Merlin had fought with magic so powerful it made Arthur's skin crawl, Morgana's scream when Merlin had told him to cut the throne in two, and the final, terrible moment when Aithusa had made her choice. Gwaine knows most of it anyway. "I spent a good hour looking for Merlin all over the castle until someone told me he was in Gaius' chambers. And what do I find when I get there? You. Standing in the doorway. Well, clinging to it."

"I was not."

"You could hardly stand upright, Gwaine," Arthur says, ignoring him. "Yet there you were. Stopping anyone else from coming in, even me." It had worked as well, although mostly because Arthur hadn't wanted to force this issue with a man who looked like he was at the end of his tether.

"He didn't even tell me about the magic." Gwaine's voice is distant, wistful almost. "Just walked straight in, took Gaius' hand and started speaking in that weird language, bold as you like. He must have known I wouldn't care. Couldn't speak for anyone else, though, and especially not for you."

"Did you know? Before that, I mean?" It would be at least some comfort for Arthur's ego if he wasn't the only one Merlin had managed to deceive.

"A few suspicions, nothing solid, not enough to ask questions about." Even in the half-light, Arthur can see Gwaine's raised eyebrow as he turns. "Did you really not suspect anything at all?"

The bank behind Arthur is cold and damp, seeping through his armour and he knows that he'll be chilled in the morning, even if they can keep the fire going all night, which is debateable. He wants to think about that, focus on the discomfort, the creeping, clammy feeling across his back and shoulders because maybe then he can actually answer the question. Just saying 'I had no idea' is true, but isn't really the whole story, because he was more than just oblivious.

"Do you remember the Perilous Lands?" he asks, concentrating on rubbing some warmth into his fingers. "The place you two morons followed me into despite expressly being told not to?"

"The land of no taverns. Awful place."

"Of course that was its worst feature. Did you meet the guardian of the bridge?"

Gwaine snorts. "Oh yes. Little fellow, bit of an attitude. Turned my sword into a bunch of flowers."

Arthur hadn't actually known that, and he manages to smile a little, adding, "Failed to tell me that the bracelet I was wearing was slowly killing me. That's the one. Merlin told me about the bracelet later," he adds, seeing Gwaine's curious look. "Amongst other things."

"I remember that conversation," Gwaine says evenly. "We had bets on how long it was going to take, who was going to emerge first and how many pints Merlin was going to need afterwards. I won sixpence off Elyan for that, although I may have cheated a little. After five pints, what's one more? And for an all-powerful sorcerer, the lad really can't hold his ale."

Arthur just shakes his head a little ruefully, trying to pull the conversation back on track. "Anyway, the guardian told me that I would need two more things to completely my quest. Strength and Magic." He presses on before Gwaine can interrupt. "I told him I didn't condone the use of magic. Then everything happened, the wyverns, the castle."

"The wall full of beetles," Gwaine adds helpfully, making Arthur grimace at the memory. He shakes his head.

"Afterwards, I remember being disappointed that the guardian wasn't on the bridge as we left, because I wanted to tell him that I'd done the whole thing without using magic." He huffs a laugh. "So smug."

"Whereas now you're the epitome of modesty." There's no particular heat in Gwaine's voice, though, and he looks thoughtfully into the fire. "Hang on, though," he says, lifting his eyes enough to meet Arthur's. "If Merlin's Magic, does that make me Strength?"

Arthur groans. "Well you were hardly going to be Brains, were you?" He grins though, despite himself.

Gwaine, of course, looks immensely pleased with himself, settling onto his side and propping himself up on his elbow. "What about you?" he asks.

And yes, maybe Arthur's leaning a little more towards regretful now, because there's no way Gwaine is going to let this one go. "Courage," he says, glancing at the fire and back. The reaction isn't what he expected, as Gwaine just nods, picking up a stick and stirring the fire a little, making sparks flare brightly in the growing dark. 

"Figures," he says, still thoughtful. "Sounds about right as well." There's an odd note in his voice as he looks up again, face grave in the firelight. "You're the bravest man I've ever met, Arthur. I'm not still here just because you're king. There's plenty of princelings out there who could use a good sword and they pay better than Camelot."

"I know," Arthur says. "I always assumed it was because Camelot's taverns have the best ale in Albion."

Gwaine laughs, and Arthur knows it’s mostly at himself. "There is that. But all the beer in the world doesn’t help if you don't have someone worth sharing the drink with."

They sit for a while, Arthur turning his hands over and over, trying to force some warmth into them, while Gwaine half-lies on the other side of the fire, his expression unusually blank. They should sleep, but every time Arthur closes his eyes, his mind fills with the clash of swords and the smell of blood, and he has to make himself jerk awake again. The third time it happens, he rubs a hand over his aching eyes.

"So are you going to tell me what’s eating at you, or are we going to keep pretending that I haven’t noticed? I mean, don’t get me wrong, a healthy dose of denial never did anyone any harm, not in the short term, anyway." Stretching a little, Gwaine twists and shuffles so that his feet are towards the fire and he’s sitting sidelong to Arthur, his profile lit by the flickering flames. "But there’s denial and then there’s brooding, and you’re not very good at pretending things aren’t happening, so I reckon you must be brooding. And trust me, no good comes of that."

He’s not looking at Arthur, eyes fixed on the fire, but even so, Arthur has to look away. It’s easier to keep telling himself that it’s a secret too big to share, too important to pass on to anyone else. If he tells himself anything else then he’ll have to admit how much this scares him, how much the burden is weighing him down. Vaguely, he wonders if this is what Merlin felt, all the time he had to hide his magic, and he doesn’t know how he bore it.

When he can make himself look back, Gwaine hasn’t moved, just staring into the fire with that same fixed, calm expression on his face, and Arthur forces himself to take a deep breath. The trouble is, Gwaine is right. Again. This is becoming a habit.

"The old man at the village, the one I found in the cave. He wasn’t dead when I found him. He said-" Arthur swallows, searching for the words. "He said he’d been waiting for me, that I needed to save Merlin before it was too late."

That gets Gwaine’s attention, his head turning just a fraction towards Arthur. "Save him from Morgana?" he asks.

"Save him from himself." As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Arthur shakes his head, because that isn’t right either. Putting words around this weight on his heart is harder than he’d realised. "How much do you know about the prophecies? About Emrys?"

The change in subject makes Gwaine shift a little, and he frowns. "That’s what the druids call him, isn’t it? Like some kind of king?" He manages a half-smile at Arthur. "Apparently you’re just not good enough for them."

"It’s more than that," Arthur says, ignoring him because if he gets distracted now, he won’t be able to keep going. "According to them, Emrys is the one who brings together all the magic and power of the world, and he’s the one who’ll lead them when they need it. It’s a title - prophet, king, warrior - all rolled up in one."

"We’re still talking about Merlin, right?" Gwaine asks, sounding sceptical. He holds out his hand. "About yay high, big ears, stupidly loyal, barely knows which end of a sword to hold? I know they think a lot of him, but-"

It’s too easy to be flippant about this, to think that just because Merlin has always shied away from his power, he doesn’t really have any. "They think everything of him," Arthur says simply. "And can you imagine what would happen if all that power had ended up in the hands of someone who actually wanted it?"

"Come on." The scepticism is even greater now, so that Gwaine sounds like he’s actually scoffing at Arthur’s words. "We’re talking about Merlin here. I know he’s a pretty powerful sorcerer, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly."

Arthur’s voice sounds flat even to his own ears as he says, "He’s the most powerful sorcerer to ever live. Or who _will_ ever live. That’s what being Emrys means."

There’s silence between them for a long moment, just the crackling of the fire disturbing the still night air.

Eventually, Gwaine stirs. "Even if I believe you and Merlin is some kind of all-powerful magical creature, doesn’t that mean he should be able to rescue himself? What’s so desperate that you can’t even close your eyes without looking like you’ve seen the end of the world?"

"Emrys is the power, but Merlin’s the one who wields it. If he loses control- No." Arthur corrects himself, "if Morgana can make him lose control, then all that power is up for grabs."

"By her." There’s a grim note in Gwaine’s voice now. "That’s what you saw? Her taking all that power from him?"

Arthur stares into the distant darkness, the sky in his mind’s eye a vivid red. "I saw that power burn away everything that was Merlin. I saw what it really means to be Emrys, and how dangerous that is. I saw enough to tell me that we have to rescue him before Morgana can find a way to do that to him." He can’t tell Gwaine more than that, can’t admit to the helplessness he felt in his vision, to knowing that if the prophecy is correct, he’s the one who will bring about the disaster.

Some of that might be on his face, though, because Gwaine just nods and looks away, his expression still clouded. "Then we need to get to him first, don’t we? And that means getting some sleep if you’re not going to walk into a tree tomorrow."

"Gwaine..."

"It’s fine." There’s a hard edge to Gwaine’s voice now. "Whatever you’re not telling me, it’s fine. Just promise me it’s for a good reason. That you’re not holding back something that will matter later."

There’s nothing Arthur can say to that. He can’t make that promise, can’t guarantee that not knowing about that terrible battle won’t prove to be a stumbling stone in the future. But he can’t tell Gwaine about it either. He can barely admit it to himself, and he’s certainly not going to put words around the sense of guilt and fear that is weighing on his heart. 

"I see," Gwaine says. "Will you tell him, when we find him?"

"I’m hoping I won’t have to." That’s the whole truth, for the first time, and Gwaine must be able to hear that, because he nods, just once. He shifts around, shuffling until he’s beside Arthur, shoulders pressed together.

"It’s going to be a cold night," he says, giving Arthur a nudge. "And if we keep the fire going too long, they’ll find us for sure."

It’s entirely possible that the relief that washes through Arthur, warm and full and flooding his face with colour, will be enough to stop him from freezing to death. Just in case, though, he leans to the side a little, pushing back against Gwaine’s shoulder. 

"If you were just to keep talking all night, I’m sure the hot air would keep us warm." His own breath hangs foggy in the night air, joined after a moment by puffs of amusement from beside him.

"I’m not sure even I’m up to that job," Gwaine says, tipping his head back. "Wake me if you feel any extremities freezing off."

Settling back as well, Arthur rests his head against the bank behind them and stares up at the sky. There’s too much cloud cover for him to be able to see the stars, and the moon is a faint glow in the distance, like a candle held behind a curtain. Even if he had been able to carry on walking, it would have been near fatally dangerous in this gloom, without any light from the sky to guide them. It’s hard not to resent it though, the dragging pace and the need to stop and rest. For a tempting moment, he considers summoning Kilgharrah after all and commanding him to fly them to Ismere, damn the consequences. 

Except if even Merlin hadn’t been able to persuade the dragon to venture into the icy wastes, Arthur doesn’t fancy his own chances either. And for the scant few miles they have to cover before reaching the ice-fields, it’s just not worth it. They’re on their own, at least for now. He has to accept that if he’s going to get any of the sleep he so desperately needs.

Breathing slowly, Arthur keeps his eyes fixed on the dark sky, watching the faint glow of light grow and contract as the clouds pass across the moon.

~

_About halfway through the conversation, Arthur made Merlin sit down. Since none of his increasingly firmly expressed instructions had worked so far, he achieved this by the simple method of getting up, walking around his desk, taking Merlin by the shoulders and shoving him into the chair on the other side. It wobbled precariously for a minute, then Merlin caught his balance and glared up at Arthur, who went back to his own seat._

_"Right, now I’m no longer concerned that you’re going to fall over from sheer terror-"_

_"Hey!"_

_Arthur ignored him, carrying on with, "-maybe we can finish this."_

_Folding his arms, Merlin leaned back in his chair. "I can’t believe you actually have a list."_

_The list had been Gwen’s idea, actually, on the basis that Merlin was far too good at distracting Arthur with bickering. If Arthur was going to get the answers he wanted, he needed to stay focussed, and while the list wouldn’t have been his first choice, he had to admit it had been effective. Every time Merlin had tried to take the conversation away from the point, Arthur had been able to move on to the next thing on the list instead._

_"I can’t believe you’re making such a fuss." Putting a hand flat on the list, Arthur shrugged a little. "You did agree to tell me everything."_

_"Trust you to take that literally." Still, Merlin settled back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest. "Come on, then. What’s next?"_

_Defence having failed, it seemed that Merlin was going to try attack instead. Fortunately, Arthur had been expecting it, and ran his finger down the list until he came to the next item, blithely ignoring the way Merlin was glaring at him._

_"Right, I think we’ve covered the obvious stuff. I had some events that I was less sure about so let's go back to..." he paused, pretending to consider. "Ah, yes. Cedric." He looked up in time to see a ripple of something pass across Merlin’s face, temporarily replacing the scowl with something more uncertain. "You do remember Cedric, don’t you?" Arthur added, trying to get some kind of reaction that wasn't just another frown and awkward shuffling._

_"Is that a trick question?" Merlin rolled his eyes, some of the darkness clearing from his eyes, replaced with something closer to frustration. "Look, this is ridiculous. And boring."_

_"Maybe if you'd just give me a straight answer for once, we could get through things more quickly." The suggestion was more from exasperation than because Arthur thought it was actually going to be taken up._

_To his slight surprise, Merlin's expression went completely blank for a moment, the way it did when he was thinking seriously about something. Then he got to his feet, crossing the room and disappearing around a corner. For a moment, Arthur wondered if he should have followed, but he didn't hear the sound of the door opening, so he made himself settle back in his chair, pretending to wait patiently for Merlin to come back and forcing himself not to drum his fingers on the table._

_After a moment, there was the sound of movement, footsteps coming closer again, and Arthur let himself feel just a touch of relief. Locking the door and keeping the keys on his belt wouldn't be nearly enough to stop Merlin if he really wanted to leave. Fortunately, it seemed that Merlin had gone looking for something instead, and he brought it back to the desk, placing it carefully - and pointedly - on top of Arthur's list._

_"Alright," Arthur said, looking down at his reflection in his washbowl. "I know you still haven't really adjusted to not being my servant..."_

_"Don't be an idiot." Still standing, Merlin stretched a hand out over the water, narrowing his eyes a little. " _Aetie_ ," he whispered._

_The surface stayed completely, unnaturally still, while beneath it, the water swirled and clouded until Arthur couldn't see the bottom of the bowl any more. He could see his own face looking up at him, except now it was superimposed on something else, like watching through a piece of clear glass. Beyond it, the water was dark, and after a moment he could make out something in the gloom. Suddenly, it resolved itself into the castle courtyard, with two figures standing together in its centre._

_He watched as Cedric and Merlin spoke to each other, then Cedric crumpled to the ground, a strange blue mist rising from him to circle Merlin. There was a ripple across the surface of the water, shaking the image so hard that Arthur almost couldn’t see it. A light touch on his shoulder made him jump, and he looked up into Merlin’s worried face._

_"Arthur, the table’s not going anywhere." The faint note of amusement in his voice did little to suppress the concern. "I’m fine."_

_Carefully prising his fingers from the edge of the table, which he seemed to have taken in some kind of death grip, Arthur looked down again, seeing the water-Merlin with his eyes closed, mouth moving in what had to be a spell. That Merlin threw his head back, mouth open as the mist was driven from his body again, filling the stone at his feet until it glowed._

_"His name was Cornelius Sigan." With something close to weariness, Merlin dropped back into his seat._

_Arthur frowned. "Cedric’s real name was Cornelius?"_

_"No. The being that possessed him was Cornelius Sigan."_

_"Oh." That made more sense, sort of. "Wasn’t that the name of the dead sorcerer?"_

_"Yes. Except he wasn’t exactly dead."_

_Lowering his gaze back to the water, Arthur remembered the glowing stone, and his stomach did something close to a somersault. "What happened to the stone?"_

_"He can’t get out again," Merlin said firmly._

_"Are you going to do that for the rest of the items on my list?" Arthur asked, gesturing to the bowl of water._

_Merlin sighed. "Only if it will get us out of here faster. And anyway, I have a list of my own that I think we should start on."_

_That was news to Arthur, and he carefully moved the bowl to one side before lowering himself back into his chair. "You do, do you?" he asked, unable to keep himself from smiling. "What, all the times I actually managed to save myself? I suppose you’re going to tell me that’s a fairly short list?"_

_The somersaulting in his stomach was back, tinged with the slight frustration and guilt that always came to Arthur when he thought about this. He was dealing with the deception fairly well, all things considered, at least as he understood more about the reasons for it. It wasn’t that his ego couldn’t handle it. Well. It wasn’t_ only _that his ego was struggling a little with all the things he turned out not to have done. He’d never been one to overlook the achievements of others, no matter who they were, and finding out just how much of Merlin’s work he’d neglected to credit was forcing him to seriously reconsider his ability to judge others._

_So he was somewhat unprepared when Merlin said, "No. All the times you saved my life."_

_Arthur snorted. "I’m assuming we won’t need a very big piece of parchment to write that list on." He looked away, watching the play of light on the wall, the late afternoon sun streaming in and lighting his whole chambers. After a long moment, when nothing was said, he made himself turn back, swallowing a little at the look of knowing exasperation that Merlin was giving him._

_"You really are an idiot, aren’t you?" Merlin said, without heat. "I hadn’t been in your service for more than a month when you saved me for the first time."_

_This time, Arthur was the one to frown. "A month?" He could guess at the incident Merlin meant, and he hadn’t included it on his list because he'd written that one off as a draw. "You definitely saved me first that time."_

_Merlin shook his head. "The poison in that cup was never meant for you. Nimueh only told me that because she knew what I’d do. What I’d always do for you."_

_"Still-"_

_"No. You risked your life for me, defied your father and saved my life. That’s all there is to it." Merlin’s voice was firm. Lifting his head a little, he reached out with one hand and his eyes glowed gold. Instantly, the room darkened, the walls seeming to close in, and the only light coming from the small, glowing ball that slowly rose from Merlin’s hand towards the ceiling. Arthur would have known it anywhere, and he smiled to himself, since Merlin wouldn’t be able to see him in the gloom._

_"I knew that was you," he said, trying for smug, although he suspected he wasn’t quite managing. It was hard to sound smug when you were sitting opposite someone who could literally turn day into night._

_"Of course you did." Merlin wasn’t even attempting to keep the amusement out of his voice, and in another moment, Arthur was blinking in the sunlight._

_He’d been looking up, following the glowing sphere as it rose, and when he dropped his head back to the table, there was something next to the bowl, rising out of his parchment list. Literally rising from it, he realised as he leaned forwards. The parchment seemed to have been folded somehow, cut and twisted and shaped into something nearly as high as the water bowl._

_Lifting his head again, he looked up and met Merlin’s eyes. The other man was watching him expectantly, arms folded across his chest again, head tilted just a little._

_"Maybe the rest of the list can wait," Arthur said, failing miserably not to smile._

_Merlin failed as well, his lips curling upwards as he stood. "Maybe that would be a good idea." He bowed as Arthur waved a hand, dismissing him._

_"We’ll continue this another time," Arthur said, aware of the untruth even as he said it._

_"Of course. Thank you, sire."_

_As Merlin turned and left, Arthur carried on staring at the desk, his eyes tracing the lines and folds. It was so lifelike, yet he could see his own handwriting on each plane and curve. He smiled as he heard Merlin pull on the door and curse under his breath, a smile that broadened as there was the unmistakable sound of the lock turning, even though he knew both the keys were still with him. That was another thing he really should speak to Merlin about at some point._

_For now, though, he sat for a moment longer before getting to his feet and picking up the water bowl. It was full and heavy, so he took it away carefully, making sure that no water splashed over the sides and onto the desk, where the small, perfect Morteus flower was standing in its parchment soil._

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

Despite, or perhaps because of the blow the previous day, Arthur had slept deeply, with only distant dreams and none of the nightmares of the previous week. Perhaps he should get hit on the head more often. Gwaine, on the other hand, really did look as though he’d spent the night sleeping in a hollow, dark circles under his eyes standing out against the pale skin of his face.

They’d been woken by Morgana’s men on the ridge above them, horses and shouts and the jingling of metal against metal. By silent agreement, Arthur and Gwaine had waited for them to pass, flattening themselves against the bank behind them, and even when all was quiet again, they’d moved on without a word, slipping into the bare forest as quickly as they could. 

The only sound now was the crunch of the ground beneath their boots and the occasional crack of a falling branch. Well, almost the only sound.

"Do you think you could not?" Arthur asks, trying not to glare across. 

"It’s not like I’m doing it on purpose." As if to confirm that, Gwaine’s stomach growls again, louder this time, clearly audible over the sound of their footsteps.

Shaking his head, Arthur makes himself keep going, however tempted he is to stop and argue about it. After all, it’s a long walk to Ismere. "If only we had a horse," he says aloud.

"Or a pig."

"You can’t ride a pig."

"No, but you can roast it." There’s a wistful note to Gwaine’s voice. "With carrots, parsnips and apples."

Since this isn’t helping Arthur’s hunger either, he keeps his eyes on the path ahead. "Gwaine..."

"You’re right," Gwaine says, and Arthur would swear that he can hear him licking his lips. "We won’t waste those apples. We’ll save them and put them in a pie."

"Stop it."

"Don’t tell me you’re not hungry too."

There’d be no point denying it, but Arthur’s damned if he’s going to give into Gwaine on this one. He’s actually opened his mouth to issue what would definitely have been a stinging rebuke when he hears Gwaine inhale sharply.

"Look."

Following the pointing finger, Arthur sees them too, the brace of rabbits just lying on the forest floor, right in the middle of a clearing. He glances at Gwaine, getting a raised eyebrow in reply. 

"Tempting," Gwaine says, putting out a hand to bring Arthur to a stop. They stand for a moment, looking around. Gwaine’s hand is resting on Arthur’s arm, and he gives a light squeeze. "There."

The ropes are wound around the tree cleverly, so that you wouldn’t see them if you weren’t looking. Now that Arthur can follow the lines, he can see how the leaf litter is a little too evenly spread across the clearing, obviously covering something. He turns and finds the ropes on the opposite side, some way away. The distance is large enough that it’s obviously not a net for an animal.

"Slavers," he says, getting a sharp nod from Gwaine in reply. They both have experience of this, at least. 

"We could cut it down." Gwaine’s eyes are back on the rabbits, and this time, it’s Arthur’s stomach that growls, making them both jump. 

"Safer just to go around," Arthur says, although he can hear the uncertainty in his own voice. 

For answer, Gwaine draws his sword and starts prodding at the ground, checking for tripwires. "Safer to arrive in Ismere having had something to eat," he points out, not unreasonably. 

It’s hard to argue with that, so Arthur draws his own sword, moving slowly in the opposite direction, sweeping from side to side. Slavers are clever, because the prey they hunt is brighter than your average deer. Still, he’d hope that they’re not a match for knights of Camelot, and after a few moments, he’s reached the tree at the far side of the clearing. Turning, he sees that Gwaine has done the same, and on his nod, lifts his sword, ready to cut through the ropes. 

"On three," Arthur says. "One. Two. Three."

He hears Gwaine’s sword strike the tree at the same instant as his own, cutting cleanly through the rope and bringing more falling down from the trees. After a moment of fumbling in the leaves, he finds the severed end and pulls cautiously. Nothing happens except the rabbits in the centre of the clearing stirring a little. 

"Nice one," Gwaine says, grinning at him. He goes to put his sword away, but Arthur shakes his head. 

"Careful. We don’t know if they have a back-up plan."

"See, that’s why you’re king," Gwaine tells him, poking the ground with his sword again. "You’re the one with the devious mind."

They spend another few minutes prodding and tiptoeing around before Arthur is satisfied that the only trap is the net that they’ve already dealt with. When Gwaine looks up at him expectantly again, Arthur nods, sheathing his sword and hearing Gwaine do the same.

"Do you think you can get a fire started?" he asks as Gwaine crouches, pulling a knife from his belt. The grin he gets in reply is as hungry as it is smug, and Arthur's stomach rumbles in sympathy.

Turning back to the rabbits, Gwaine hefts one thoughtfully, as though he's a butcher gauging the weight. "You get me the wood, and I'll make breakfast."

Arthur contemplates pointing out that it's hardly a king's job to gather firewood for one of his subjects, but just then, his stomach gives a particularly loud growl and he shuts his mouth again. He can probably make an exception this time.

~

No matter how hungry they are, there's no rushing the roasting of rabbits, and Arthur is as twitchy with impatience as hunger by the time Gwaine declares them ready to eat. There's a rabbit each, which is good eating even if they weren't so ravenous, and Arthur would be embarrassed by how clumsily he's trying to get the meat off the bone into his mouth if Gwaine wasn't doing exactly the same beside him. One the first flurry of desperation passes, Arthur makes himself slow down, only too aware how ill eating too much, too fast will make him.

As if reading his mind, Gwaine lowers his own rabbit, sitting up a little and taking a few deep breaths. 

"Looks like we might survive the walk to Ismere after all," he says, making Arthur smile and shrug, although Gwaine has turned his attention back to his food before Arthur can say anything.

They eat in silence for a little longer, and Arthur can't say what makes him look up to the treeline a scant twenty yards away. He's grateful for the instinct, though, and the tension that suddenly ripples through catches Gwaine's attention. There's no time, and no need, for words, only a moment of regret for Arthur that he took his gloves off to eat, because the hilt of his sword is cold as he wraps his fingers around it and pulls it from its sheath.

Having lost the element of surprise, the men who'd been lurking in the woods break cover, their own weapons already drawn. Arthur recognises the type, the ragtag mixture of armour and leather, topped with thick fur hats.

"Must be the slave merchants," Gwaine mutters, setting his sword into a two-handed grip. "Might give us the advantage."

If they are looking for prisoners, they'll want to take live prisoners, not deal with corpses. Arthur is going to have no such restraint, not when it comes to men like this. 

"Are you sure about that, lad?" The voice comes from behind them, making Arthur swing around, startled. Gwaine's shoulder bumps against his and in another moment, they are back to back, Gwaine still looking to the group of men from the woods while Arthur fixes his attention on the newcomer. The newcomer and the men with him. And their crossbows.

He'd swear he doesn't move, but Gwaine must feel something from where their shoulders are still touching.

"Outnumbered?" he asks, with a hint of disbelief in his voice. He knows that a little thing like ten to one odds wouldn't stop Arthur from taking his chances.

"Bows," Arthur says for answer, the anger curling in his stomach as he slowly spreads his arms, watching an echoing smile spread across their captor's face. Behind him, Gwaine curses, shifting a little and forcing Arthur to brace himself against the movement. If it were just him, or if there were only one bowman, he’d take his chances. As it is, he lets one of the men take his sword from him, and doesn’t resist as he’s pushed to his knees, almost overbalancing as Gwaine is shoved down next to him. 

"Decided you’d like a little rest, did you?" Gwaine mutters, his eyes moving from man to man as the slavers gather around them, his gaze sharp and assessing.

"Decided I liked you better without a crossbow bolt in your neck." There are twelve men, ranging in age and build, the way these groups tend to. They might be a motley mix of size and experience, but with the two crossbow men behind them, he supposes they don’t really need to be able to do much more than hold the right end of a sword.

His eyes drift across to where the man who had spoken, and who seems to be in charge, is looking closely at Arthur’s sword.

"This is a fine piece," he says thoughtfully, turning it to catch the watery morning light. "Too fine for just a knight. A king then, and this kind of workmanship has to be out of Camelot." The grin on his face is humourless, entirely predatory as he nods to someone behind Arthur.

There’s a muffled cry, cut off by the sound of a hard blow as Gwaine tries to stop the men taking hold of Arthur, two of them taking his arms while a third grabs his hair, yanking his head back. Arthur doesn’t flinch, making himself bend with the pressure and looking up into the eyes of the leader. It’s only when the sword comes into view, the gold-etched runes seeming to shine even without full sunlight, that he swallows hard. He has little enough fear of death, but the thought of leaving the sword in the hands of a man like this makes his breath catch in his throat.

"You will fetch a handsome price," the man says, leaning over him and bringing the tip of the sword to rest against the base of Arthur’s throat. "Alive or dead. Any last requests?"

Arthur will not close his eyes. He will not look away from the man who will kill him. His only hope now is that this sword which was only meant for him and which is about to be coated in his blood will somehow bring vengeance down on the man who kills him. Despite the pressure against his skin, he lets himself take a deep breath and feel some of the relief lurking at the back of his mind. Because it’s a terrible thought, but if he dies here and now, kneeling on the cold ground and looking into this stranger’s eyes, then he can’t die on a battlefield sometime in the future, and Merlin will not have to witness it. 

As the man’s grin widens, Arthur lets the calm sweep over him, only wondering distantly if Merlin will be able to sense that he is dead.

"Stop!" 

The shout makes everyone jump, the point of the sword digging painfully into Arthur’s neck before it’s withdrawn, the hand in his hair also letting go although the men holding him down stay where they are.. There are footsteps behind him, a man’s steps striding out from the treeline. From the corner of his eye, Arthur can only see a long dark coat, belted at the waist, and a wrapped turban of cloth and fur, its end draped over the man’s shoulder.

"Shouldn’t we let the lady Morgana decide their fate?" the new arrival says, making the leader sneer. The two of them look at each other in silence, and Arthur takes the opportunity to glance over at Gwaine, seeing his own surprise mirrored there. He shakes his head, just a fraction at the question in Gwaine’s eyes. Something is stirring, right at the back of his mind, and he tries to concentrate on it, bring it into focus as the two men seem to come to some kind of conclusion.

"Get them on their feet," the leader says. "We’ll take them with us." He strides away without look back, tossing the sword to one of his men, presumably for storing somewhere. Arthur will have to look out for that.

For now, though, he turns his attention to the man who just saved his life, intentionally or not. He’s shorter than Arthur, and of a slimmer build under his winter clothes. When he turns, Arthur catches sight of a pale face, made paler by the black hat and cloak, but it’s not the man’s appearance that has his attention. The eyes that are boring into his are blue and so light as to be almost unearthly, and Arthur is almost glad of the men heaving him up, because he’s not entirely sure that his knees are going to hold him. 

Misinterpreting the blankness of Arthur’s expression, the man smiles, just a little. "You don’t remember me, do you?" he says, and his voice is low, refined for someone who must live such a harsh life. "You saved my life once, many years ago."

The words turn the lock on Arthur’s mind, memories flooding in so fast that it would make him dizzy even if his heart wasn’t pounding in his chest as though it’s trying to escape. Those eyes are so familiar, even though the face around them has changed so much, and he can’t think how he didn’t recognise it before. This is the man from his vision, the pale man in armour whose actions set off that terrible chain of events, how could Arthur not have seen this? How could he not have known?

His lips are moving with no conscious thought, the word slipping past them little more than a hoarse whisper. "Mordred."

The smile Mordred gives him is more genuine this time, even if it is tinged with a hard sadness. "Hello, Arthur."

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)


	8. Trap

  
_Knowledge must come through action; you can have no test which is not fanciful, save by trial._  
Sophocles, Trachiniae

The knock on the door makes Guinevere jump, breaking through the silence and her concentration. Her chambers have been too quiet all morning, and although it's allowed her to finish the grain assessments for the month, it's been an all-too present reminder of her solitude. Normally, she shares the table with Arthur or Merlin, able to exchange comments and questions as they work. Now, with Sefa gone as well, the room is echoingly empty.

"Come," she calls, rubbing at her eyes. With no one to interrupt her, she's worked far longer than she would normally, and it must be near-on noon by now. Despite his grave expression as he crosses the room towards her, it's good to see Gaius, and she smiles easily.

He doesn't return it. "My lady," he says, bowing a little, and shaking his head when she gestures to the chair opposite her. "May I ask something of you?"

"Of course." Laying down her quill, she sits back in her chair, folding her hands. "What do you need?"

"It is not for myself, but for Sefa."

This is not unexpected. While Arthur is continually berating Merlin for his soft heart, Gaius has been the one to set him that example. His compassion is boundless, for all his apparent severity, and Guinevere had half-expected him to say something sooner.

"Very well," she says, nodding. "What is it?"

"She wishes to speak to you, my lady. To plead her cause." There is nothing in his tone to give him away, sounding as though he is simply passing on a message that means nothing to him beyond simply doing his duty.

Guinevere looks away, her eyes falling on the side door, which the maid who served her breakfast has left slightly ajar. Sefa would have made sure it was closed properly, and would have returned by now to ensure that Guinevere stopped to eat something, or at least took a break from her work. The memory of her quiet, efficient work makes the betrayal cut even deeper, and Guinevere forces herself to take a deep breath. She keeps her eyes on the open door as she says, "Very well. That is the right of every citizen of Camelot. I will need you in the council chambers later today. She can attend us there."

Behind the blank mask, Gaius' eyes are troubled, but he inclines his head a fraction. "Thank you, my lady," he says, still apparently calm and professional.

As he turns to leave, Guinevere forces herself to look at him again. "Gaius?" she says, waiting for him to meet her eyes before asking, "How is she?"

He appears surprised at the question. "She is in fear of her life, my lady. You of all people can understand what she is going through."

It is a rebuke, as sound as if he had openly contradicted her. Except Guinevere has been expecting this as well, and she manages to keep her response minimal, blinking a little and nodding. "Of course. Thank you, Gaius."

With a last, unsettled look, Gaius nods and leaves, closing the door soundlessly behind him. Once she is alone, Guinevere lets her head drop back against the chair, staring at the ceiling until she can breathe properly once again. She blinks against the blurring of her vision, keeping her focus on the here and now so that the walls do not close in on her, the suffocating fear kept at bay for now. That is long behind her, dealt with and forgiven, on all sides. While she will not forget, she does not have to remember it in this way. Slowly, she drags her gaze down, passing over the side door and trailing along the walls, fixing at last on the fireplace. During the darkest days of winter, Arthur will not let anyone put the flames out completely, keeping this room snug and safe, a refuge from all the troubles that beset them outside its warm, comforting reach.

_There was no other light in the room but the glow from the fireplace, and Guinevere blinked for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the gloom. Normally, darkness like this would mean that the room had been empty for hours, but as she came closer to the fire, she could see that one of the high-backed chairs was occupied, booted feet stretched out on the hearth rug._

_"Arthur?" That couldn’t be right, because Arthur was still downstairs, seeing the feast to its end._

_"Gwen."_

_The sound of Merlin’s voice let her relax a little, coming around so that she could see him better. It didn’t help much. Merlin was sunk back into the depths of the chair, his face almost completely in shadow. He had changed out of the slightly finer clothes that Arthur made him wear for banquets nowadays, and although he was leaning back in the chair, apparently at ease, there was something tense about the way his hands rested on the arms of the chair, the way he didn’t lift his head to look up at her, that put Guinevere on her guard._

_"Merlin?" she asked, coming a step closer. "Is something wrong?"_

_"It’s your anniversary," he said, his voice low. "Today, you and Arthur have been married for three months."_

_She wanted to smile, because of course Merlin would remember something like that. The smile wouldn’t quite come through. "We have," she said simply, tilting her head a little and trying to make out his face in the darkness._

_"I’m so happy for you. After everything that happened, the day the two of you were married, Gaius thought I was going to sprain my cheeks, I was grinning so much." Something closer to wistfulness came into his voice, hardening as he added, "And I didn’t know what to do. Gaius said I shouldn’t, but I thought you should know."_

_It wasn’t easy to speak past the tightness in her throat, and Guinevere's voice sounded strained to her own ears as she asked, "Know what?" Because this was Merlin, who knew things about magic and mysteries that she’d never even heard of. In the months since she’d known about his magic, she hadn’t wanted to pry too deeply, hadn’t wanted to ask what he saw when his eyes unfocussed and his voice turned hoarse and strange._

_That strangeness was there as he finally turned his head towards her, lifting his chin, just a little. "There’s something I need to tell you," he said, and he gestured to the other chair by the fire._

_She took it, sitting down slowly, unwilling to look away from what little she could see of him. Then she flinched as there was a spark of gold from the shadows, Merlin’s eyes lighting with the unearthly light that only came when he used his powers. The flames rose higher, and the candles on the mantelpiece burst into life, bathing the two of them in something closer to a comforting glow. Settling herself again, Guinevere looked across and found herself staring straight into Merlin’s eyes. They glistened in the candlelight._

_Unwilling to break the tense silence, she just nodded, not needing to speak for him to understand._

_He looked back at the fire. "I need to tell you about Lancelot."_

_The room spun around Guinevere for a moment, until she could make herself take three long, calming breaths. Even now, thinking about him could turn her world upside down. It wasn’t just the ache deep in her heart. Since she and Arthur had reconciled, since he had forgiven her, it was the fear and sorrow that even the mention of Lancelot’s name conjured up in both their minds. This was a wound not yet healed enough to touch._

_"I know it hurts," Merlin went on. "I saw what it did. To both of you. And that’s why I have to tell you."_

_"Tell me what?" The words weren’t much more than a whisper, and even then, she started at the sound of them. This time, when Merlin turned to her, his eyes were so wide and dark in the flickering light that she barely recognised him, his voice seeming to come from a long way away._

_"It wasn’t him. The Lancelot that returned to us? It wasn’t really him. Morgana raised his shade, brought back his ghost but without his true spirit, and he was completely under her control."_

_Guinevere stared at him for a long time, her mind blank and mouth open. Of all the things she had thought he might tell her, nothing like this had so much as briefly crossed her mind. Beyond their bubble of light and warmth, the room faded away, lost to darkness as she struggled to let Merlin’s words sink in._

_"There’s more," he said, keeping his eyes on hers. In her peripheral vision, something moved, distracting her enough to let her look away, almost light-headed from holding her breath. Merlin’s right hand was now resting on the arm of the chair, holding something that glinted in the firelight. She couldn’t quite see it until he turned his hand over, the fine metal bracelet resting on his palm. "She gave him this to give you. It wasn’t just a love token, Gwen. Some of the guards found it in your cell afterwards." He tripped over the word, recovering quickly. "They’d forgotten about it until after we retook the castle. As we were putting everything back together, Gaius and I were looking for anything Morgana might have left behind, anything magical." With a twist of his hand, he lifted the bracelet, turning it between his fingers. "We found this."_

_She had to close her eyes for a moment, assaulted by the memory of Lancelot standing so close to her, his eyes so clear and earnest, his hands gentle against her skin._

_"It’s enchanted," Merlin said, his voice almost back to normal now, cutting into her thoughts. "It would have forced you to-" he broke off, making her open her eyes in time to see him shake his head. "It made you do whatever he wanted. It made you love him, Gwen."_

_And suddenly, she understood why Gaius had told Merlin not to say anything about this, to leave it undiscovered, because she had to shake her head at his words._

_"It didn’t need to."_

_That startled him, and he fumbled the bracelet for a moment, almost dropping it. Carefully, he put it back on the arm of the chair, looking up at her with wide, uncertain eyes._

_"Gwen?"_

_"It’s alright." The tears in her eyes were catching the light, making her vision spark and forcing her to blink against them. "Loving Arthur doesn’t mean that I never loved Lancelot." She could say his name now, not smoothly, but at least without breaking down. "Arthur and I have made our peace."_

_"But I thought..." Merlin shook his head, his hands shaking a little as he pulled them into his lap and out of sight into the shadows. "It was a spell," he said, a little helplessly._

_The memory was clearer now, the feeling of acting against her judgement, even against her own will. Knowing that she hadn’t been imagining the strange sense of compulsion was something of a comfort, she supposed. Aloud, she said, "I think I already knew that."_

_"Does Arthur?"_

_There was a sharpness in Merlin’s voice now, a reminder to Guinevere that she was not just talking to a friend seeking to comfort her. While she knew Merlin loved her, she didn’t doubt that he would always put Arthur first, no matter what. She couldn’t resent him for it, even when it hurt her. When she shrugged, not knowing what to say, he sat up at last, leaning in._

_"You have to tell him, Gwen. Things would never have gone as far as they did without this." He held the bracelet up again. "I know you, and I know you would never have betrayed Arthur. Ever. It wasn’t your fault."_

_It was strange, having that protectiveness turned towards her, and for a moment, it was as though she could see the core of power that she knew lay under Merlin’s gentle expressions and kind words. There was such a fierceness to him that she drew back a little, startled._

_"You’ve carried the blame too long, Gwen," he said, more gently now. "You don’t have to anymore."_

_They both jumped as the door handle turned, Arthur’s voice carrying in from the corridor. Guinevere looked at Merlin in alarm, but he just shook his head, and then stood, turning to face Arthur as he came into the room._

_"Well this doesn’t look at all suspicious," Arthur said, stopping to lean against one of the bedposts. He raised an eyebrow. "Care to tell me why you’re sitting in the dark with my wife, Merlin?"_

_"Considering you’re the one who stayed downstairs drinking, I don’t think you’ve got much high ground to stand on really, have you, sire?" Merlin’s voice was light and mocking as usual, nothing amiss in his smile or gesture as he turned back to Guinevere. "Good night, my lady," he said, inclining his head, and then turning back to Arthur. "Sleep well, prat. She’s better than you deserve."_

_"Good night, Merlin," Arthur said, putting a little force into the words, although his expression eased a little as he looked over to Guinevere. "And I know she is."_

_They waited until Merlin had closed the door behind him, Guinevere taking the chance to settle herself again, the warmth of the fire sinking into her skin just enough to let her relax a little. Once they were alone, Arthur smiled ruefully, then came over to kiss her._

_"Sorry," he said. "I couldn’t get away."_

_"It’s fine," Guinevere told him, pleased that her voice sounded normal again. She cupped his cheek with one hand. "I understand."_

_"He’s right, you know. I really don’t deserve you." Arthur turned his face into her hand briefly before straightening and moving away from her, starting to sit in the chair opposite. It was so normal and familiar that Guinevere let herself sink into it, unprepared and unguarded when he stopped, reaching down to take something from the seat. "That’s odd," he said, holding it up to the light. "Merlin must have left this behind." He turned it, bringing it closer to his face for a better look. "Doesn’t look like something of his."_

_Guinevere closed her eyes, opened them again, and looked up at her husband. "That’s because it isn’t," she said, waiting for him to take a seat before starting to speak._

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

It’s hard not to brace herself while she sits with Gaius in the council chamber, going over the later Druid treaty. She can’t let the tension get to her, will not show anything but the calm face of a queen to anyone. She cannot afford the weakness.

Even so, she glances up a little too sharply when the doors open and Sefa is brought in. The girl looks so young it startles Guinevere all over again, the same way it had when she’d passed sentence. Sefa is far too innocent for this sort of intrigue, her eyes still bright, perhaps hoping that in granting the audience at all, Guinevere is suggesting she might be open to more. This may be harder than she had anticipated.

Sefa’s hands are twisting together, and she drops them self-consciously, lifting her head a little as she addresses Guinevere. "My lady."

"Sefa. You asked to see me." Guinevere’s voice is steady, and if she is gripping the quill in her hand a little too tightly, only Gaius is close enough to see. 

"I’m sorry for what I did," Sefa says. "It was wrong, I know. It was without thinking. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone. I wouldn’t. I..." The careful speech breaks down a little as Sefa stumbles over the words, catching herself with a steadying breath. "All I wanted was to help my father, and now I am condemned to death."

Despite her sympathy, there is enough anger still lurking at the edges of Guinevere’s mind that it is not an effort to simply shake her head. However much she might like Sefa, pity her even, Guinevere will not forget the consequences of her actions. "You understand the law, Sefa. I cannot change it."

That was not the expected answer, and Sefa’s eyes widen, alarm in them for the first time. "Please," she says, her hands twitching as though to stretch them out towards Guinevere. "I know you have a good heart. A reprieve, please. I’m begging you." 

"Men have died." The words are harsher than intended, but they have the desired effect and Sefa’s hands drop to her side again.

"I know," she says simply, her eyes filling with tears. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I did it for my father. It was the only thing he wanted from me. I told him I couldn’t but-" Breaking off, Sefa looks away for the first time, her eyes on some point in the distance. She looks so lost that Guinevere’s sympathy threatens to overtake her. "I wanted to make him happy," Sefa says simply, and Guinevere understands that, she really does.

"He used you," she says, more gently this time.

Sefa nods, just a little, turning her head so she can see Guinevere again. "I know. My Lady, I don’t want to die."

"There is nothing I can do, Sefa. The sentence stands." The words are all Guinevere can manage, and she nods slightly to one of the guards, who comes forward to take Sefa by the arm again.

"My lady?" There is something close to real panic in Sefa’s voice now, enough that Guinevere has to look away, back down at the papers in front of her, or risk giving herself away completely. She keeps her head down as the doors swing shut again on Sefa’s final cries, the sound of them tearing at Guinevere’s resolve.

Gathering herself, she eases her grip on the quill a little, hoping she has not twisted it out of shape. "Where is that I need to sign?" she asks Gaius. When he doesn’t answer her, she looks up, seeing the disapproval in his face.

"Perhaps you should reconsider," he says, watching her closely. "The sentence is a harsh one."

"The law is clear." Guinevere glances towards the doors which are now firmly closed. She knew Gaius would not give up on this; he never does.

"Sefa was naive and foolish, but she doesn’t deserve to die."

He’s right, of course, and the temptation is too much for Guinevere. This room is as secure as any in Camelot. With more relief than she cares to admit, she puts the quill on the table and shakes her head ruefully. 

"And she won’t, Gaius. I have no intention of executing her." She keeps her voice low, giving Gaius a sad, reassuring smile as she goes on, "My aim is to catch her father. He is the threat to Camelot, not the girl. I’m hoping her plight will lure him here."

"Why did you not tell me?" There is hurt in Gaius’ voice now, and genuine confusion. 

"Her predicament must remain genuine. Ruadan may have more spies here. And if he has any inkling of this, he will not come." Gaius, she trusts. Beyond him, only Elyan and Aeldred have any idea what is going on, and Guinevere intends to keep it that way. 

Gaius shakes his head. "This is a dangerous game, my lady."

"Wars cannot be won without risks. The execution is set." It’s hard to look away, to pretend that she does not see the reluctance on Gaius’ face. Unfairly, she wonders if he would be the same were this Arthur’s plan rather than hers. 

"What happens if Ruadan doesn’t appear?"

That is not a thought she will let herself think at the moment. The risk is great, it is true, but it is no more than Arthur has risked in the past, and if she is to protect him, she must be no less brave.

"Sefa is his daughter," she says simply. "I have to believe that he will."

~

It is Aeldred who comes to her later that night, waiting until everyone has retired from the hall before approaching her. The druids and knights had mingled easily over dinner, giving Guinevere hope that they will be able to fight well together when it is most needed.

"Your highness," he says, bowing his head a little. "All is ready."

"Thank you." By now Elyan will have told Leon of their plan, while Aeldred’s men will have taken up their own positions. "Then we have nothing to do but wait." She expects him to take his leave, tilting her head a little in question when he takes a seat next to her. 

"It is possible that Ruadan will not simply seek to rescue his daughter," he says. "If anything were to happen to you, Camelot would be lost."

She smiles. "Thank you. Not that I am not glad of the company, but I hardly think I am in danger."

"These are dangerous times." The serious undertone catches her attention. Aeldred’s brow is furrowed and his hands are clasped tightly in his lap. "Camelot must stand if we are to prevail."

"Prevail?"

Shaking his head, Aeldred looks away from her, gazing into the fire still roaring in the hearth. "Our seers have dreamed of dark times ahead. Chaos and bloodshed and war ripping through the kingdoms of Albion. If she is not checked, Morgana will rip the heart from this land in her fury."

"Arthur will stop her," Guinevere says, chilled by the coldness in Aeldred’s eyes. "You know he will. He and Merlin can stop Morgana."

"I hope so. But if they were to fall, Camelot cannot be left without a leader." He looks at her then, serious and sombre. "You are a good queen, my lady. You should know that our loyalty is to this kingdom, and to its ruler, whoever that may be."

To acknowledge the compliment would be to entertain the thought of Arthur not returning, to consider that she may one day rule this land alone, and that is not something Guinevere can do. "Arthur will return," she says, low and sure. "Arthur will always return to his people. They mean more to him than anything." She is more sure of that than anything else. Arthur loves her, fiercely and passionately and with a depth that still surprises her, even now. But he will always put duty first, and his people must come before all others. She knew that when she married him, and she will honour that duty above even her own life.

Some of that must show on her face, because Aeldred simply nods, looking back towards the fire. "It is as you say. But I think I will sit you with tonight anyway, if I may. We cannot depart until first light, and I would rather know that you are well-guarded."

"I fear I may be poor company," Guinevere says. "But you are welcome all the same."

"No one who is a good listener is poor company." From his tone, Guinevere can imagine that they are keeping company in happier times, when the anticipation of danger to come is not hanging over them. "Has Emrys ever told you the story of Nuun and Inga?"

Guinevere shakes her head and settles back in her chair. "I don’t believe he has."

"Perhaps he doesn’t know it. I understand his education has leaned very much towards the practical, and this is a story of romance and daring." 

Aeldred is a good story-teller, his voice rising and falling with the tale, and while Guinevere cannot quite stop herself from glancing towards the doors from time to time, she is at least distracted enough to do nothing more. 

By the time the warning bell rings, Guinevere’s head is almost nodding with tiredness, the darkness beyond the firelight full and deep. She jumps to her feet without thinking, startled and ready, although it takes her a moment to remember what for. Aeldred is already beside her, his hand on her arm. 

"Easy," he says. "My men are with yours. All is prepared."

She nods, putting her hand over his and letting him draw her behind him, both of them watching and waiting. Beyond the hall, she can hear men shouting, calls travelling from one end of the castle to another, although Guinevere cannot hear them clearly enough to make sense of the words.

As if sensing her frustration, Aeldred tightens his grip on her arm. "Be patient. You will distract them if you interfere."

It’s that reminder that helps keep her in place as the sound of rushing feet passes the door, men running through the hallways with their boots thumping and armour clashing. She has never been good at inaction, and she is too used to being able to go where she pleases, with only her own instincts to hold her back. Now, those instincts want to be down in the cells, to know what is happening and not have to wait to be brought word. Fighting the urge, she leans into Aeldred’s touch and tries not to hold her breath. 

An age passes. The fire cracks and hisses in the grate, throwing up sparks as one of the logs splits in two. Guinevere can hear her heartbeat, too fast in her ears and almost drowned out by the rush of blood. Aeldred’s hand is steady on her arm, tight and secure as they share the silent tension.

They hear the shouts before the doors are flung open, and Guinevere knows as soon as Elyan comes running into the room that something has gone wrong. Shaking herself, she comes around the table to join him, holding out a hand to steady him. 

"What is it?"

"We couldn’t hold him." There is a streak of something across Elyan’s cheek, warm and wet when Guinevere raises her fingers to it. "It’s not mine," he says, clasping her hand. Beneath his glove, his skin is hot and she can feel his hand shaking. "He killed two guards to get to Sefa. He was using magic, Gwen. We couldn’t stop him."

There is something he is holding back, she can see it in his eyes, and from the way they had flickered, an awful certainty grips her. "Eric?" she asks, not surprised when Elyan flinches and shakes his head, pulling away from her. 

"He did everything he could, but Ruadan was stronger than we’d expected. Gaius is with the wounded now."

"Tell me," Guinevere says, putting a little force behind the words. She will not let her brother shield her from this. 

"Eric saved our lives. He took the full force of the blow that was meant for us. He has not yet woken up."

"And Ruadan?" It is Aeldred that asks, breaking the moment between them. 

Elyan shakes his head. "He was wounded, mortally I would say. That was when he struck out with magic, using it to escape before we could seize him. Leon has taken some of the guards and some druids to go after him. They will not get far."

It is little enough comfort. Guinevere trusts Elyan, and she trusts his judgement on this. Beside her, Aeldred nods slowly. "Then we should see to your injured."

"One of the healers is already with Gaius," Elyan says, keeping his eyes on Guinevere, knowing that she will need this reassurance. "Only Eric's condition is serious, and the captain of the guards will ensure that the families of the dead are told."

Once again it seems there is nothing for Guinevere to do but nod, aware that the gazes of both men are on her and she is determined not to buckle under this weight. Any disappointment at the carefully planned trap being so easily escaped must be contained for now, and she knows they are looking to her for direction. Anger can wait. Now is the time for action, or at least, for her to command action. She promises herself that as soon as Arthur is back, she will send herself on a long trip out of the castle's confining walls. 

Bringing her attention back to Elyan, she says, "Very well. There is no point the entire castle remaining on alert. See to it that everything is locked and secure, then send everyone else to their rest. Ask Gaius to let me know as soon as there is any change." She doubts most of them will sleep, even as she gives the order. 

"I will tell my men to prepare," Aeldred says. "If Ruadan is able to send word to Morgana, then she will know Arthur is not here. She will not stop searching for him."

Swallowing past the fear that clenches around her heart, Guinevere nods. "Of course. Will you wait for the search party to return?"

Aeldred shakes his head. "I do not think we have the luxury of time. If Morgana finds Arthur before we do, then all is lost." He takes a step away from her, bowing low before turning and sweeping out of the hall, every step thudding against Guinevere’s taut nerves.

"I should go with him," Elyan says. "We will collect the search party as we pass, which should give us enough men to deal with anything Morgana throws at us along the way."

"And when you reach Ismere?" She reaches for him instinctively, her fingers wrapping around his gloved hands. "Elyan, you must be careful." 

He turns his hands so he can clasp hers, his eyes dark and solemn in the dim light. "Leon and I know what we are doing. Besides, if I know the king, he will already be there, and our only job will be to mop up after him."

She manages a smile at that, more so when he lifts her hand to kiss it. "Good luck," she says, voice breaking a little as he smiles back.

"We will bring him home," he says. 

Then he is gone, leaving Guinevere standing alone in the hall, feeling the heat of the fire on one cheek and the cool night air on the other. There is more shouting in the courtyard now, the clatter of horses’ hooves and the sound of an armed party getting ready to depart. While it is never a comforting sound, it is at least familiar, and she knows that she should take courage from it, trust in the men she is sending out. As it is, she turns away from the windows, dragging a chair closer so that her whole face is warmed by the fire. It is not her task to ride with them, or to interfere with those putting the castle back to rights. Not yet. For now, her task is to be here, to be the strong centre that everything revolves around, and to have the right answer when the questions inevitably arrive. 

Putting her head back, she tries not to think about the empty spot on the other side of the fireplace, and eventually has to close her eyes so that she will not feel so alone.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

It is full light by the time Guinevere can bring herself to leave the hall, and her indecisiveness on where she should go next only lasts a moment. As everyone seems to, she finds herself making her way through the castle hallways towards Gaius’ rooms, unsure of what she will find, but knowing she will be welcome.

She hesitates on the threshold, hearing no movement inside and feeling suddenly foolish. Gaius will be busy with those injured last night, and will have better things to do than indulge her moment of weakness. Except she knows he will not see it that way, and the thought is enough to help her step inside, looking around the workshop for any signs of life.

Eric is lying on a makeshift bed by the fire, his face pale and his eyes closed, and Guinevere’s breath catches for a moment, until she sees his chest rise and fall and she can allow her own to do the same. He lives, and as she comes closer, she sees his hands twitch against the blankets. Without thinking, she sinks onto the stool next to the bed and takes his hand in hers, smiling as he tries to turn his face towards her. Not as asleep as she had thought.

"Eric," she says softly, not wanting to startle him. "Eric, it’s Guinevere." Eric’s brow furrows a little as though in thought, his eyes moving beneath closed lids. It’s impossible to tell whether or not he can understand her words, but she knows from her own illnesses that just a familiar voice can be enough to comfort. "You did well last night," she says, unable to think what else to say. "You acted swiftly and bravely, and I wanted to thank you for it." This time, the response is more pronounced, as his head presses back into the pillow, moving restlessly from side to side, and Guinevere thinks she understands. "You did everything you could," she says, stroking the back of his hand. "If you had not acted, the consequences could have been much worse." This time, Eric’s lips move, a breathy sound escaping from them, so that Guinevere has to lean close, trying to hear. 

When she makes out the gasped word, she frowns, tightening her hold on his fingers. "No," she says firmly. "You have not failed. Not me and not Arthur. I will not have you say such things."

"He feels it keenly," Gaius says from behind her, and Guinevere jumps, so caught up in watching Eric’s strained face that she hadn’t heard him come in. "Being the only knight with magic."

Recovering a little, Guinevere shakes her head, not denying it. "I know. We expect so much of him, and of Merlin. I know that magic cannot cure all our problems, but we still ask it of them." 

"And they will continue to rise to the challenge," Gaius says. He pulls another stool out from under the nearest table and sits down a little heavily. Guinevere recognises the slump of his shoulders, the weariness in his eyes.

"What has happened?" she asks, and he glances at her sharply, as though he had not expected her to ask so soon. 

"They found Ruadan," he says. From his tone, she already knows the answer to her next question, and makes it a statement instead. 

"He is dead."

Gaius nods. "And Sefa has fled. There was no sign of the girl." He hesitates, then unclasps his hands, revealing a small piece of paper that he turns between his fingers. "This was found on Ruadan’s body." 

"What is it?" She lets herself hope that it might be his message to Morgana, that he was unable to put Arthur in danger before being overcome by his wounds. 

Gaius dashes her hopes as he unfurls the tiny message, frowning down at it. "It is a prayer," he says, and Guinevere has to force herself not to squeeze Eric’s hand too tightly as she fights back her disappointment. "It is a call for victory over the enemies of the old religion."

It is not a surprise. For all that he has done, there are still many who feel that Arthur has not gone far enough in restoring magic to its place within the kingdom. As Eric mumbles something in his sleep, his fingers twitching in her hold, she wonders if they are right. He should not have to bear the burden of being the sole knight with magic. 

But that is a problem for another day. For now, she just shakes her head a little. "So Ruadan felt it was his sacred duty to fight my husband. He has heard the ancient prophecies."

Gaius frowns at her, as though he hadn’t expected her to know of such things. As though she wouldn’t have wanted to know everything she possibly could. As though she wouldn’t have questioned Merlin and Aeldred until they told her everything that might be a danger to Arthur.

Slowly, Gaius says, "It is true that there are those who believe that Arthur is destined to die by a Druid's hand. Perhaps Ruadan thought he was that man."

It makes sense of Merlin’s mysterious searches for an unknown druid, and of Aeldred’s strange words when he learned of Sefa’s betrayal. But satisfying her curiosity brings little comfort, and Guinevere spares some of her pity for Sefa, growing up with this knowledge and this burden. Ultimately, though, that does not matter now, and she turns her attention back to Eric, holding onto to her composure as best she can. "Well, then," she says, smoothing the blanket across his chest and keeping her voice light and firm, "he was mistaken."

Eric seems to have fallen back into sleep, his face relaxed and easy again. There is so little Guinevere can do for him, even less for Arthur and Merlin. Three years ago, this inaction would have chafed, the boundaries set by her position would have been more like a cage to hold her back.

Now, she carefully stands, releasing Eric’s hand as gently as she can and placing it back on the bed. When she turns, Gaius has risen as well, his hands folded in front of him once again, his face composed. He has known her for so long, seen her at her most powerless as well as on the best days of her life, and still he bows his head as she looks at him. 

"Thank you, Gaius," she says, coming close enough to touch his shoulder lightly. "I will be in my chambers when there is news."

"Your highness," he says, and there is a smile beneath the seriousness of his expression.

She feels his eyes on her as she leaves, and it is not an uncomfortable sensation. She has long since grown used to people bowing to her in the hallways, and while it is never something she will take for granted, she no longer has to fight the urge to tell them to get up. Because the people need their queen, and as long as she has this sort of support, as long as she believes she can do this, she knows that she can hold Camelot together until Arthur returns.

~

The tiny links of the chain are cold in Merlin’s hand. He’s been holding them for what feels like hours, clutching them like a lifeline, and still the metal remains cold. For the hundredth time, he wishes he’d paid better attention when the druids had spoken of meditation, and reaching beyond the confines of his own minds to something beyond. Prophecy is not one of his gifts, and his attempts to empty his mind usually result in boredom or impromptu naps, but right now, he would give anything for some stillness, and the calm, centred sense that rolls off the druids in waves.

Sighing a little, he shifts on the spot, ignoring the discomfort in his folded legs, his stiff back. They give him something to focus against, as does the chain. This time, as he closes his eyes, he tries to concentrate on that, on the chill hardness against his skin. There is magic deep in the metal, he knows, and for a moment, he feels the buzz of it against his mind.

Although he wants to turn towards the feeling, he breathes deeper instead, trying to open his mind further and draw the magic to him. Chasing it has got him nowhere. He lets his mind relax, fall still as though he is falling asleep, quiet and open and ready for wherever it will take him. Dimly, he hopes that he isn’t just dozing off again, as he lets himself sink into the magic’s embrace.

When he comes to himself, it is not to jerk out of the meditative state. This is not wakefulness, the world he has opened his eyes to. There is no sign of the bars of the cage or the stones of the ruined hall, and he allows himself a sense of victory for finally managing to at least partly transcend his body. 

He is standing on the edge of some high place, looking down at a wide, flat plain below, lit by moonlight. In the distance, he can see the shining ribbon of a river running down to a dense forest, and he knows he has stood here before. He brought Arthur to this place when they were exiled from Camelot. The forest he can see is where Arthur drew the sword from the stone, and this high escarpment is where the dragons swore loyalty to their king. Then, as now, Kilgharrah had first appeared as a distant speck on the horizon, dark wings beating against a darker sky.

Merlin smiles.

"Hello, old friend," he says, stepping back as the dragon lands lightly in front of him. 

"Merlin." There is relief and surprise in Kilgharrah’s voice, and he dips his head a little in greeting. "I did not think to ever see you here."

"You and Arthur, always underestimating me." The words are supposed to be a tease as much as a reproach, but Merlin feels the flinch beneath Kilgharrah’s smile. 

"So it would seem." There is still something odd about the way the dragon is looking at him. "Tell me what I can do."

"Find Arthur," Merlin says without hesitation. "I know he’s coming here, and so does Morgana. You have to find him and stop him. And don’t tell me you don’t know where he is," he adds quickly. "We both know that’s not true."

"Merlin." The tone of the dragon’s voice is gentler now, the tone of someone breaking news that the other person will not want to hear. "Arthur has already passed into Ismere. I cannot follow. You know this."

"No." The word is a flat denial. "Aithusa is here with Morgana. If she can be here, then so can you. I don’t care if you have to set fire to every patch of ground along the way. Arthur cannot come here."

"Even if I were to do as you ask," Kilgharrah says, his tone making it clear that he does not intend to do so, "do you really think I can force the king to do anything he does not want to do?"

"I don’t care!" Merlin cannot be sure whether not getting angry here will break his concentration enough to pull him back into the real world, and since it not something he wants to risk right now, he forces himself to calm down. "Kilgharrah, Morgana is so strong." That wasn’t what he had intended to say, but with his feelings so close to the surface, he can’t stop himself. "We completely underestimated her."

"Are you hurt?" There is such a sharp spike of concern from the dragon that Merlin takes half a step forward, wanting to reassure him. 

"I’m fine," he says. "So far. But the spell she’s using is too strong for me to break." There is no mistaking the scepticism on Kilgharrah’s face, and Merlin shakes his head. "I mean it. The dragonlord powers are different."

"You are stronger than you know." Kilgharrah speaks slowly, carefully, as though trying not to give too much away. That’s impossible here, where it is their minds that are connected, and perhaps if they were speaking in the real world, Merlin would not have noticed the unease underlying the words. "Are you sure you cannot free yourself?"

"Nothing’s worked so far," Merlin says, frowning a little. "What is it?" He pushes a little of his will into the words, trying to command Kilgharrah to tell him. It takes him by surprise when the dragon flinches away, and he presses harder, starting to be worried. "What are you not telling me?"

"Please." 

The word brings Merlin up short. Kilgharrah rarely asks for anything, and Merlin has never heard him sound desperate before. A cold knot of fear settles in his stomach.

"You know that I could command you to tell me," he says, hardly recognising his own voice, it is so hoarse and harsh.

"And I am asking you not to." Kilgharrah slumps a little, shaking his head. "There are some things I cannot tell you, as you well know. What I do know is that you should not underestimate your own powers."

A vivid memory flashes into his mind again, sharper and clearer here than it had been in the real world. His fury and grief for Lancelot channelled and directed into sheer power, so strong that he had not just destroyed the tree stump in front of him, he had forced it completely out of existence, as though it had never been. He shivers, blinking up at Kilgharrah as the memory fades.

"I don’t underestimate them." The words are slow and careful, as though forming themselves in his mouth before his mind can grasp them. "But directing them is not so simple."

"I know." There is sympathy in Kilgharrah’s voice. "Merlin, all I can promise you is that I am not holding back anything that could help you. This is a path that you must find for yourself."

Merlin understands that, even if his curiosity is threatening to burn him up inside. One thing he has learned from the druids, though, is patience. "Then there is nothing you can do for me," he says, trying to sound resigned rather than petulant, and he takes a step back when the dragon lifts his head. "If you find Arthur, tell him that Morgana’s temper is worse than ever. Perhaps he can use her anger against her, make her careless somehow."

"I will tell him." Kilgharrah bows a little, then turns away, looking out over the plain below. In this dreamscape, the sun is starting to rise, golden light tinging the green of the fields and forest. "I am sorry."

Merlin stands and watches as he flies away, watching the sun come up and turning the dragon’s words over and over in his mind. There is something there, he is sure of it. Something the dragon is trying to tell him that Merlin cannot quite grasp. In the past, the cryptic message would have left him irritable and frustrated. Now, he tries to look at it patiently, wonder how the powers that are currently beyond his grasp could help him. 

The sun rises fully at last, searingly bright in Merlin’s eyes, and he closes them instinctively against the light. It does little good, since the brightness only increases in intensity, burning over Merlin’s forehead and cheeks until he raises a hand to try to shield himself. It’s too dazzling, confusing his senses too much, and his knees give way under the force of it. He staggers, knowing that if is not careful, he will reach the edge of the ridge before he knows it.

Then he is falling, the light enveloping him completely, white and searing and overwhelming. His fingers crash against something hard, and suddenly he is back in Ismere, bent forward over his folded legs, his back screaming in protest and his hands flat on the floor of the cage. He stays like that for a moment, letting his eyes and mind adjust to the pale light of the hall, the hum of the magic around him. The cage feels so much smaller now, after seeing the wide expanse of the plain, the sense of confinement and frustration almost overwhelming. Keeping his head down, he forces himself just to breathe, trying to get himself back under some semblance of control.

When he can sit up, the small length of chain is on the ground in front of him, still cold when he touches it with just the tip of his finger. He can feel the magic in it more strongly now, just as he can feel the power of the cage properly. With a stirring of hope, he wraps the length around his hand, tucking the ends between his fingers to keep it in place as he reaches out to the bars. 

Nothing happens. His fingers wrap around the cold metal without the tingling or stinging of earlier. He’d been right about their strength, and pulling a little has no effect whatsoever. Against his fingers, he can feel the power in the chain, the channelling of his magic, and he takes a deep breath. This is something he knows little about, for all that he has wielded the Sidhe staff on more than one occasion. His own magic has always been much more direct, and using an object to focus the power feels strange. Still, if it will let him get free of this cage, he thinks it’s something he could learn to like.

With care, he slips his hand further forwards, trying to get a better grip on the bar, and putting some of his power into it at the same time. 

Apparently the dragon was right about not knowing his own strength. As soon as the metal of the chain touches the bars, there is an almighty crack, the sound of a hundred avalanches bearing down on him all at once, and a blast of force so strong that it blows him back to the other side of the cage. He cries out as he hits the bars, his back burning from the contact, then again as he falls to the ground. Everything is on fire, inside and out. He takes a moment just to breathe against it, focusing on what hurts the most to try and ground himself again. Eventually, his hand starts to throb, a real, physical pain that anchors him enough that he can think. 

So that’s not going to work. 

He slowly works his way back up to sitting again, unwrapping the chain which has dug deeply into his hand. Each link has left a perfect impression on his skin, although he can’t tell yet whether or not the marks are burned in. The power is still trembling under his hand, as though responding to his frustration. It jumps as he lifts his head to look at the bars, anger and helplessness rolling over him. It’s not just anger at Morgana and this cage, it’s at Kilgharrah and his complete inability to tell Merlin anything useful, at Arthur for being such a fool for coming after him, at the damn druids and their damn prophecies, and the destiny that they’ve hung around his neck like a millstone. 

Without thinking, he lifts his hand, raising the chain with his magic and flinging it against the bars of the cage, where it dances and sparks for a moment. He forces more power into it, making it white-hot, glowing from its core. This is good, this is familiar, anger rising and rising as it had done when he’d faced Aithusa. He can do this, lose himself in the flame of the magic, until he forces his way free. He’s always being told that he has so much power, maybe this is the moment to prove it. 

He’s chosen the wrong vessel. He knows that almost as soon as his fury reaches fever-pitch, bursting out of him so strongly that he almost recoils with the kick of it. Unable to contain the magic, the chain bursts into full flame before disintegrating, falling to the floor of the cage as ashes. With nothing to focus his power, the enchantment of the cage catches up with Merlin at last, and he has just enough time to think that he really should pay more attention when Aeldred tells him to get a grip on his temper before the pain comes crashing in, sweeping him into the darkness.


	9. Prisoner

  
_What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step. It is always the same step, but you have to take it._  
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Assuming he makes it through this alive, Arthur is never again going to think of snow as ‘just’ snow. In the past few hours, they’ve walked on frozen, slippery ground that was only passable thanks to a light dusting of sticky snow. They’ve waded through knee-deep drifts that have soaked through their boots and left Arthur with little feeling in the toes of his right foot. They’ve trudged along paths hidden under compacted snow and ice as hard as stone, with the added bonus of freezing their hands when they inevitably fell.

And they fall a lot. Arthur leans forwards, resting his bound hands on his legs and taking the chance to just breathe for a moment. The slavers set a relentless pace, which means that the prisoners bound to their cart inevitably lose their footing from time to time. It’s a brief respite for the rest of them, even if Arthur winces every time someone has to be hauled upright again. 

Beside him, Gwaine glances over his shoulder to where two of the men seem to think kicking someone in the ribs is a good way to motivate them to stand. 

"You know, if we’d just gone back to Camelot, we could have been sitting in hot baths by now. Warming our feet by the fire. Maybe a few honey cakes to keep us going until dinner."

"Thanks for that, Gwaine." Arthur straightens up again, trying not to glare as his stomach chooses that moment to growl. "Remind me to tell Leon that you volunteered to help with the new recruits when we get back. They usually start by running laps of the training grounds in full armour."

He’s aware of the man in his peripheral vision for a scant few seconds before something punches into his middle, a sword hilt or whip handle from the feel of it. Only something that hard could hurt this much through his mail. As he doubles over, wheezing and resisting the urge to try and swing his bound hands into his attacker's face, he feels Gwaine's hands on his shoulder, possibly steadying him, possibly reading his anger and reminding him that they have no tactical advantage. Yet.

"You don't talk unless you're spoken to," the man spits out, shoving Arthur for good measure.

"No need for that," Gwaine says, pulling until Arthur straightens up, his stomach clenching against the pain. "I'll look after him."

Arthur doesn't turn around as the sound of crunching footsteps fades away, leaning on Gwaine just a little. Their eyes meet, and Arthur sees the frustration there, the anger that mirrors his own. 

"Any thoughts?" he mutters, swaying forward against Gwaine's shoulder as though still winded.

"The boss man's careless with that dagger. You keep it like that for show, not use." 

Understanding, Arthur nods, lifting his hands to brace against Gwaine's arm, holding himself stead for a moment. "You or me?"

"Well, you are the king, sire. And I think he likes you best." The grin Gwaine gives him is broad and knowing and so familiar that Arthur has to resist the urge to laugh. He settles for shaking his head instead, standing upright unaided this time.

"Great," he says, and when the cart moves off again, dragging them with it, he lets his feet carry him along behind it, not thinking about the ache in his shoulders and his belly. He’s watching the men around them, the way they walk and ride and hold themselves, and he’s waiting for the right moment. As long as they break free before they get to Ismere, everything will be fine.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

_"So this is what you’ve been up to all afternoon. You’re no fun anymore." Arthur lifted the top book from the pile nearest him and ran a finger through the dust on the cover. "You look like you’re trying to build a castle out of these."_

_Merlin looked up from whatever worthy tome he’d been engrossed in and frowned at Arthur. "What?"_

_"What, sire?" When Merlin’s frown just deepened, this time in confusion, Arthur waved a hand. "Never mind. What are you doing in here?"_

_With a slightly raised eyebrow, Merlin looked down at the book, then up at Arthur. "Taking an army to invade Mercia. What does it look like I’m doing?"_

_"It looks like you’d rather spend a gloriously sunny day stuck inside a room full of boring books than out enjoying the fresh air."_

_This time, Merlin sat up properly, leaning back in his chair. He looked at Arthur for a long, thoughtful minute, in which Arthur tried not to fidget with the book he was still holding. Eventually, Merlin said, "Gwen refused to go hunting with you, didn’t she?"_

_"No! That’s not it at all!" Which was a lie, of course, and Merlin knew it, because Guinevere had probably told him. Between the two of them, Arthur had no secrets left._

_"She refused to go because you laughed at her yesterday when you were teaching her to shoot with a crossbow," Merlin said, folding his arms and giving Arthur a faint smile. "That was a really bad idea by the way."_

_"It was funny!" This wasn’t helping his case, of course, even if Arthur had to stick up for himself. "She missed the tree by about six yards. Even you could do better than that." Arthur snapped his mouth shut as Merlin's eyes narrowed. "Er. That is..."_

_"Go shoot things on your own, sire," Merlin said, pulling the book off the table towards him. "I have work to do."_

_"Work?" Sitting in a gloomy, dusty room with nothing but books for company wasn’t Arthur’s idea of fun, but he’d more or less assumed that this was where Merlin wanted to be. "What_ are _you doing down here?"_

_Sighing, Merlin put the book back on the table and rubbed his eyes. "After the lifting of the ban, people started bringing their magic books to Camelot, the ones they’d managed to hide during the purge, or that they bought from merchants from other kingdoms. After you made me court sorcerer," Merlin paused to glare, as though reminding Arthur just how impressed he’d been at that, "they started bringing them to me. About half of them are pure rubbish and will make great kindling for the Samhain fires. Of the ones that are real, most are harmless, mostly about how to cure warts or ensure a good harvest." A faint pinkness appeared on Merlin’s cheeks and the tips of his ears as he said that, and Arthur made a mental note to look those books up later. "Then there are a few that could do real damage, sometimes to the person casting the spells. I’d have those burned as well if I didn’t think they might be useful one day. Then there are these." He put his hand on a small pile, maybe four books, all of them looking old and battered._

_"What are they?" Arthur turned his head, but he couldn’t read the titles from his end of the table._

_"Prophecies. Turns out people have got a lot to say about the future." There was a ghost of a rueful smile on Merlin’s lips._

_Arthur knew why. "And about you."_

_"And you," Merlin shot back, but he didn’t deny it, even if there was something guarded about his eyes. "Like I say, I have a lot of reading to do."_

_Carefully, because Merlin tended to get touchy about things like prophecy and destiny, Arthur said, "Are you sure that’s a good idea? I thought most of those things were deliberately written to be obscure."_

_"Some of them are. Some of them aren’t." Merlin shrugged. "The more I know, the better chance I have of protecting Camelot." There was something in his voice, a certainty that Arthur recognised, and he knew there would be no shifting Merlin from his course, any more than he'd answer questions about what he'd found. Apparently part of being 'Emrys' was holding onto a lot of secrets. Arthur had long since come to terms with the idea that not everything Merlin did nowadays was his business. "This is important, Arthur."_

_It seemed that was all he was going to get. "Very well," Arthur said, turning to go. "I’ll leave you to your reading." He’d expected a final sarcastic comeback, or some comment about his own reading abilities. Instead, when he looked back, Merlin was bent over the book again, apparently already absorbed in whatever it contained._

_Arthur made sure that he closed the door quietly behind him._

~

Between them, Arthur and Gwaine manage to tear enough cloth from their undershirts to wrap around their fingers. It's little protection from the cold, but it might be enough to stop them actually falling off from frostbite. The temperature is even worse when the sun drops, the links of Arthur's mail freezing against his neck. Behind him, the other captives are huddled together, sharing what little warmth they have while their captors sit around a blazing fire. Even Gwaine has dropped any pretence and is curled in with the others, his face far too pale in the moonlight.

Arthur cannot bring himself to sleep. When he closes his eyes, he no longer sees Merlin's face, the moment of blind panic that’s so quickly hidden by a flash of blinding light. Instead, he is looking into Mordred’s pale eyes, seeing the controlled fury behind them as he swings his sword in a gleaming arc. 

After jerking awake for the third time, he gives in and sits up, watching the slavers wolf down their evening meal. They haven’t offered their prisoners so much as a crust of bread, and even Arthur, who managed to eat hot meat just that morning, is ravenously hungry. He can’t imagine what the other men are feeling.

Sensing his stare, the head slaver gives him a malicious grin. "What are you gawping at?" When Arthur doesn’t react, the man picks up the heel of a loaf that half-fell into the coals. "Is this what you want?" he asks. "Catch." The throw was never meant to reach Arthur, the bread tumbling through the snow feet away from him, far further than his tethered hands will let him reach. Still, he makes sure that he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t let the man see the rolling anger beneath the surface.

He can’t help the blink, though, when Mordred speaks, his voice holding the same soft, certain tone that it had before. "Maybe we should feed them."

"What for?"

"They’ll be skin and bones." It’s more defiance than Arthur would have expected, considering Mordred could be risking his own neck by arguing. 

Fortunately for him, the man just scoffs. "Morgana wants slaves, not hogs for the fire."

"Then slow the pace."

That gets a little more attention, the man’s sword swinging round to point at the prisoners and lingering a moment in front of Mordred’s face. "The quicker we get there, the quicker I get my money."

There’s a finality to his tone this time, and Mordred subsides, glancing at Arthur. In the flickering firelight, it’s hard to tell exactly, but he thinks he sees something like sympathy there, laced through with a healthy amount of distaste. For his part, Arthur sits as still as his shivering with let him, and doesn’t take his eyes from Mordred, even after the boy turns away, even after the fire is banked and the slaving party wraps themselves in their blankets and furs to sleep, even after Arthur cannot control the shaking in his hands and the tremors that run through his body. Through all that, he keeps his eyes on Mordred, unable to look away from the face that he knows will haunt his dreams.

Arthur sleeps at some point, his body betraying him to exhaustion. He wakes to a hand on his shoulder, to find that he had slept sitting up, face pressed into his raised knees and that his back has stiffened almost to immobility overnight. Stifling a groan, he lifts his head to see Mordred crouched in front of him. It takes an effort for Arthur not to lean away from the hand on his shoulder as Mordred shifts closer, pulling something from his coat.

"Here," he says, pressing the two rolls into Arthur’s arms, frowning when he sees Arthur’s face. "Do you want them?"

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur’s voice is low and hoarse, trying to reconcile the open, expectant look on Mordred’s face with the determination of the man in his vision. 

"You once saved my life. I owe you a debt." He glances over his shoulder, checking where the rest of the slaving party are. "Don’t be so quick to judge me. I had nowhere else to go. Thanks to Emrys, even my own people rejected me."

Gritting his teeth, Arthur keeps most of the surprise from his face. He knew that Merlin had sought a druid, that he’d spent so long looking for someone he claimed was the enemy of Camelot, but not once had the name Mordred been mentioned. Another secret, another omission of the truth, another hidden burden borne to spare Arthur its weight.

Aloud, he says, "What is Morgana looking for in Ismere?" He will not betray himself or Merlin, although the anger rising in him again may just be enough to keep him warm for the day. 

Mordred takes his hand away, looking uncomfortable. "The Diamair."

"What’s that?"

"In the language of my people," Mordred breaks off, shaking his head. "In the druid tongue it means ‘the key’."

That’s not enough, not nearly, and Arthur wants to shake the boy, force him to say more. They can’t have long though, not before the others get suspicious, so he settles for asking, "The key to what?"

"The key to all knowledge," Mordred says simply, as though that should have been obvious to Arthur. He glances over his shoulder again, looking back at Arthur with a last, regretful look before getting to his feet. 

Arthur watches him go, tucking the bread into the crook of his elbows, cradled against his body and hidden from sight. As usual, Merlin has managed to completely wrong foot him, this time without even being here. Why didn’t he tell Arthur that the druid he’d been looking for was Mordred? Merlin has always been rather cagey on the subject, Arthur knows, but it would have been so much simpler if he’d just said why. 

On the other hand, even now, with the ghost of the vision in his mind, Arthur still sees the child Mordred was, those wide, innocent eyes so full of fear and trust. He doubts that he would ever had believed that little boy could be a danger to Camelot, let alone wield the sword that-

"Hey, your majesty." Gwaine doesn’t quite prod him in the ribs, but he comes close, pushing his hands against Arthur’s side. "Is that what I think it is?"

Arthur leans back a little and pulls out the bread. He tears off a little for himself, then hands the rolls over. "Share that out. Who knows when they’ll next see food?"

"They?" The questioning look is somewhat undercut by Gwaine’s almost feral grin. "You not planning on sticking around?"

"Were you?"

If anything, Gwaine’s grin only gets more dangerous, and Arthur can feel the corners of his own mouth twitching in response. "Do you have a plan?"

The slavers are starting to get ready to move, tying bedrolls to their saddles and loading up the cart again. Arthur watches them as he’s been watching them for the past day, and he knows that this will work. "Yes," he says, and gestures for Gwaine to go share the bread out. "I think I do."

~

_"Next time you have an idea," Merlin said afterwards, trying to push the last strands of wet hair from his forehead, "remind me to be clearer about just how stupid it is." He shifted a little, his shoulder bumping against Arthur’s where they sat side by side._

_"It worked, didn’t it?" Water was running down the back of Arthur’s neck, pooling at his feet and although climbing the hill had helped keep his muscles from seizing up, he was fairly sure he was never going to feel warm again._

_"No thanks to you."_

_That was true at least. Arthur shrugged. "I knew you’d catch me."_

_"Next time, perhaps you could check that with me before you throw yourself into the floodwaters?" Merlin gave the kerchief in his hands another twist, squeezing more water out of it before shaking his head._

_"He would have drowned." They both nearly had, Arthur and the lad he’d dived in to save. If it hadn’t been for Merlin, for the power that had grabbed them both and yanked them onto the opposite bank, he doubted if anyone would ever have found their bodies._

_Sighing, Merlin gave up on his kerchief, dropping it into his lap. "You’re still an idiot. What if I’d been looking the other way?"_

_"You still would have caught us." There was no doubt in Arthur’s mind about that. No matter what else happened, he knew that Merlin would always, always catch him. Anyway, he knew that wasn’t what was bothering Merlin, not really. As casually as he could, Arthur leaned back on his hands, not caring that the ground was muddy. He wanted to be able to see Merlin’s face as he asked, "Did you know you could do that?"_

_From this angle, what Arthur could mostly see was the colour rising in Merlin’s cheek and turning the tip of his ear pink._

_"I’m still not entirely sure what I did," he admitted. "I mean, I can see what happened." He waved a hand at the raging river in the valley below, which looked as it had when Arthur and Merlin had first arrived. It was running fast and deep, swollen with the run-off from the mountains, the cold winter and sudden mild spring melting the snow too quickly for its banks to cope with. Arthur could still feel the shock of the icy water as his head had gone under, the boy he’d tried to save struggling in his arms. Then he’d been on the bank, still holding onto the boy, and the only rushing sound was in his own ears because the river in front of him had slowed to a trickle, barely deeper than a forest brook._

_By the time he’d gathered his wits, Merlin had been ushering the last few villagers across, his lips pressed into a tight, hard line even as his eyes flared with gold. Arthur had made it to his feet in time to help the last few of them up the slippery bank, then Merlin had been at his side, and the river came crashing through the valley again._

_Merlin turned his head a little, not looking at Arthur, his expression still tense and wary. "I just don’t know how I did it," he said._

_Arthur wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to say to that. Slowly, he flexed his cold fingers, then reached out and took the kerchief from Merlin’s hands, giving it a last, hard wringing out, before shaking it flat again. Then he reached up, and tied it back around Merlin’s neck, aware that it would be cold and damp, but at least it would stop more rain running down the back of his tunic. He resisted the urge to rest a hand on Merlin’s shoulder, staring back out over the valley instead, watching the river sweep more of the landscape before it._

_"Does it matter?" he asked, feeling Merlin relax a little beside him, then shrug,_

_"I don’t know."_

~

Gwaine nudges Arthur with his shoulder hard enough to make Arthur stumble. Steadying him, Gwaine leans in so that they can’t be heard talking. "I thought Merlin was joking when he said you could switch off like that."

"Helps me sleep in the saddle," Arthur mutters back, shaking himself a little to bring his mind back to the present. The landscape around them is bright white enough that it hurts his eyes as he blinks himself into full wakefulness. "Is it time?"

"They shared out food about twenty minutes ago," Gwaine says in reply, stumbling a little as the cart jerks over uneven ground. "Do you want me to do it?"

"No." If they've eaten, the men are more likely to be relaxed and off their guard. As much as he isn't looking forward to this, Arthur would rather Gwaine did the talking part of the plan. That means he gets the falling part.

With a final glance to make sure Gwaine's ready, Arthur sucks in a long breath, the air hitting his throat and lungs hard, making him cough. He stays upright through the first couple of spasms, then lets his knees unlock, dropping to the ground and jerking uncomfortably as he inhales snow along with the bitterly cold air. That hadn't been part of his plan, and he closes his eyes, concentrating on looking out of control while battling to get his breathing steady again.

Above him, Gwaine calls out, shouting for the caravan to stop, then kneeling next to Arthur's shoulder. "Boss is coming," he says in an undertone as his fingers slip over Arthur's mail, doing nothing to help him while looking as though he's trying to get Arthur up again.

Some of the burning in Arthur's lungs has died down, which is good because it's barely a second before he's hauled back to his feet, still doubled over, his eyes watering and face contorted with the struggle to breathe normally again. He lets himself list to his left, falling against the leader, who shoves at him angrily. Arthur still hasn't let his knees take his weight properly, and they struggle against each other for a moment, Arthur pushing against the man as though trying to get back on his own two feet, fingers catching on the man's cloak and belt.

"Get off." With a savage push, Arthur finds himself tottering backwards, still bent over his bound hands as Gwaine moves in to take his weight.

"He needs food. We all do." There's enough controlled anger in Gwaine's voice to be believable, although Arthur is sure it's barely half what he's feeling.

Gwaine stiffens suddenly, which is the warning Arthur needs, and he makes sure his eyes are still half-closed, his posture that of an exhausted man, as a hand wraps itself in his hair and jerks his head back.

"Not so much of the great warrior now, are you?" The sneer in their captor's voice stirs some of the frustration deep in Arthur's belly, and he has to tighten his fingers to remind himself that this is the plan, that he needs to carry his patience just a little further. He lets his eyes roll back in his head, swaying again as though he might faint, and Gwaine puts out his hands to steady him.

"I'll look after him," he says, moving close enough that his hair brushes against the side of Arthur's face. The movement is a question, and Arthur jerks his head, hoping it looks like a man trying to pull himself together, not the nod that it is.

It must work, because the hand releases him, letting him rest against Gwaine for a moment as he gets his breath back.

"At least you didn't get punched this time," Gwaine says softly, shoving Arthur upright as the cart moves off, pulling them with it.

"Would have been worth it," Arthur replies. He takes a moment to adjust his hands, turning them in the ropes and bringing them closer in towards his body. It will take more concentration this way, but it will be worth it to keep the stolen knife safe. Now all he needs is the moment to use it.

~

_Merlin looked down at the sword Arthur offered him with deep scepticism. "I really don't think this is necessary," he said._

_"I know you know which end to hold," Arthur replied, reaching out with his free hand to grasp Merlin's wrist, pulling his hand up and pushing the sword into it. "And I think it's absolutely necessary, and I'm the king."_

_"That doesn't impress me nearly as much as you seem to think it does." Glancing from the sword to the small group of knights gathering around them, Merlin's mouth twisted into a thin, unhappy line. "What exactly do you think this is going to accomplish?"_

_Swinging his own sword a little, Arthur took a few steps away from Merlin, giving them both room. "You can't always rely on magic, Merlin. I've seen the druids training." He'd done a lot more than that in his long fireside discussions with Aeldred, trying to understand how the two forms of fighting could be blended into one._

_"Arthur," Merlin began, then broke off, glaring when Arthur prodded him lightly with the end of his sword. "I manage fine."_

_"I've seen you trying to fight with a sword, Merlin, and while I'll grant that you know enough to get through the first ten seconds, I seriously doubt you'd last much longer than that."_

_"If it went on longer than that, I wouldn't need the sword anymore," Merlin grumbled, but he shifted the sword into a two-handed grip that looked at least a little less incompetent. "Am I allowed to ask why you decided we need an audience?"_

_"They're not an audience," Arthur said, making a light swipe at Merlin's sword with his own, satisfied that it wasn't just going to fall out of his hands. "They're a group of bandits. I want to see how bad the problem is before I try to work out how to solve it." It was also the scenario they encountered most often, since Arthur was fairly sure no one was going to challenge Merlin to a duel in the near future. and even if they did, it wasn't like Arthur would let him fight it himself._

_"Wonderful." The sword dipped a little as Merlin turned to look at the group around him. "Also, really stupid."_

_Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Really?"_

_"Really. Because if I was attacked by a whole group of bandits-"_

_"Which happens quite a lot."_

_"If I was," Merlin said, sounding as though he was speaking through gritted teeth, "then I wouldn’t be idiot enough to take them all on with a sword."_

_"Running away only gets you so far, Merlin," Arthur said, and gave the signal for the others to attack, just as Merlin answered his mouth to reply._

_The fight was short, brutal and effective. Afterwards, Merlin walked over, took hold of Arthur’s wrist and lifted his hand._

_"I don’t need a sword," he said, pressing the hilt of the sword into Arthur’s palm. "Tell anyone who’s bruised to go and see Gaius later." He stepped one of the prone knights, and strode off towards the castle. Around Arthur, some of the men began to groan, slowly picking themselves up from the ground where they’d been thrown in a single sweep of Merlin’s hand. A couple glared at Arthur, who, despite himself, began to laugh._

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

Timing is everything. It’s an instinct Arthur has always had, when is exactly the right moment to move, based on nothing more than an internal rhythm that simply knows this is the time.

Gwaine picks it up, whether through instinct or awareness of Arthur, it’s hard to say. But his actions are unmistakably timed to perfection, and it’s one less thing for Arthur to worry about. They’ve emerged from the enclosed path with its steep, impassable, ice-covered banks on either side into a more open landscape. The snow is deeper here, giving them a better footing, and it could be their last chance for a while. 

Without needing to look at Arthur, Gwaine takes three swift steps forward, catching up to the cart and wrapping his fingers around a rope and pulling hard. He steps away just as quickly, barrels and boxes and furs tumbling from the back of the cart into the snow. 

"Stop!" The leader of the group swings his horse around, riding back to the group of prisoners. "Who did this?" When no one speaks, he lifts himself up in his stirrups, face twisted in rage. "Who?"

Arthur tilts his head, just a little, leaning towards Gwaine enough to get the man’s attention. In a good imitation of a man dropped in the middle of trouble, Gwaine starts, then glares at Arthur. 

"We need to rest," he says, weary defiance in his voice. They decided to play it this way because Arthur is the more valuable prisoner, and while they might beat him, he doubts they’d risk Morgana’s wrath by simply killing him. Gwaine is unlikely to receive the same dubious protection.

Their gamble is spot on, judging by the way the leader swings himself from his horse, drawing his sword. "You can rest," he snarls, obviously at the end of his patience, "forever." His eyes are fixed on Gwaine as he strides forward.

As before, timing matters, and Arthur lets the man get within a pace of him before acting. He’s obviously assumed that Arthur’s ‘betrayal’ of his friend means he isn’t a threat. It’s almost insulting to have been taken prisoner by someone this stupid, and Arthur puts all of his frustration and annoyance into the blow aimed at the man’s face. It’s a two-handed swing, backed up by the knife hilt still clutched between Arthur’s palms. The man staggers, literally knocked off his feet by the force of it, and Arthur doesn’t wait to see him fall.

Turning the knife, he cuts through the ropes binding his wrists, pulling his hands free to take his sword, which Gwaine has grabbed for him. He uses it to free Gwaine, who is pulling things from the back of the card, his distraction leaving him open to his left. Arthur steps past him, sword singing in his grasp as he brings it up to face one of the slavers. He blocks the first blow with enough force to sweep the attacker’s arm aside, and brings his sword back, cutting across the man’s front. For good measure, he uses his momentum to bring a leg around, kicking the man’s feet out from under him and landing him on his back in the snow. 

Something whistles past his ear, and he turns in time to see one of the other slavers go down, a knife sprouting from his chest.

"Good shot," he says as Gwaine hands him a crossbow. "Run." A sound behind him catches his attention, and he pushes at Gwaine’s shoulder, urging him forwards. Without really looking, he fires the crossbow towards the man on horseback who had been bearing down on them, fairly sure that he’s going to miss, and also fairly sure that it will spook the horse enough that missing won’t matter. He hears a panicked cry from both man and beast as he turns and grabs Gwaine's arm.

They start to sprint past the rest of the prisoners, Arthur pushing his guilt firmly to the back of his mind. The immediate danger is to himself and Gwaine, and assuming these men survive the rest of the journey, there’ll be a chance to rescue them later. He has to believe that. As it is, he’s half-stumbling in the snow as they reach the top of a small ridge. Gwaine catches his arm and they steady each other on the way down. Behind them, shouts suggest the slavers have managed to get themselves organised.

"What next?" Gwaine asks, panting hard as they slide down onto flat ground again.

"Keep running."

It’s not much of an answer, and Arthur has to grit his teeth against the cold stabs of pain in his hands and feet, the air stinging his lungs. He has his sword in his hand again, which helps, the familiar feel of it giving him new strength. 

They round one of the icy mounds and Gwaine tugs hard at his mail, stopping Arthur from sliding straight down the crevasse that is open in front of them. 

"Wonderful", he mutters, looking around. They could keep on running ,of course, follow the edge of the crevasse, but they’re going to run out of energy or ground at some point. Arthur looks over his shoulder, then back at the huge crack across the landscape, decision made.

"Oh, you’ve got to be kidding," Gwaine says, backing up next to Arthur, giving them both a better run up. 

"Do you have a better solution?" Without waiting for the reply, Arthur takes three running steps and launches himself across the crevasse. For a heart-stopping second, he thinks he’s miscalculated horribly, then the ground rushes up to meet him, knocking the wind out of him as his feet hit hard and he falls, rolling for a few feet through the snow until he can stop himself. On the other side, Gwaine is still looking as though he’s seriously considering going back to the slavers. "Come on," Arthur shouts, throwing his sword and the crossbow behind a snow-covered rock that will give them at least some cover. "We haven’t got all day!"

Even from here, Arthur is fairly sure he hears Gwaine swear under his breath, then he makes his own run, just about making the crossing, his knees buckling almost at once. Arthur scrambles to help him, pulling at Gwaine’s shoulder, when something moves in his peripheral vision. 

The dark shape in the corner of his eye resolves itself into Mordred, his cloak and turban seeming as black as night against the snow. He rounds the corner just as Arthur and Gwaine had done, and skids to a halt in the same way, looking across at them. Arthur lifts his head, meeting those pale, strange eyes and for a moment, neither of them move. Mordred seems as frozen as Arthur, trapped by his gaze, and Arthur sees his throat moving, as though swallowing is suddenly difficult. His own mouth is dry, his body hot under his mail for all the chill outside, and he can feel the warmth moving up to his face. 

A distant shout breaks the spell, and Arthur is moving again, dragging Gwaine behind the rock and dropping down beside him, resisting the urge to hold his breath. 

Sound carries well in the frozen air. Mordred doesn’t raise his voice, but the words drift across to Arthur, as clearly as if they were standing next to each other.

"They must have gone over the edge," he says, cutting through the shouts and curses of the other men. "Come on, unless you want to go down after them. There’s still there rest of the prisoners."

Gwaine turns his head, breath warm against Arthur’s ear as the sound of the grumbling men fades away. "What was that?"

"I have no idea." He really doesn’t. The strangest thing is that he’s not surprised Mordred helped them, although whether it’s from a sense of honour or some longer, hidden plan, Arthur has no idea. More than anything right now he wants to find Merlin and shake him until he has the answers he needs. They were supposed to be finished with secrets.

"We shouldn’t waste it," Gwaine says, cautiously leaning in the other direction, looking around the side of the rock. "We still have hours of daylight to reach Ismere. It can’t be far now."

"You can still turn back." It’s a genuine offer, even if it’s one Arthur knows Gwaine will never take up. "Head back towards Camelot. They’ll send people out to look for us, I’m sure. All you’ll have to do is find them."

"And leave you to have all the fun?" Gwaine is still turned away, his shoulder stiff. There’s a tense, unhappy note in his voice as he says, "Look, Arthur, you can’t do this alone. I know I’m not Merlin-"

"No," Arthur says, cutting him of, not wanting to hear any more. None of them have Merlin’s power, and it’s pointless pretending otherwise. But he won’t have Gwaine do this to himself. Sniffing, he adds, "You’re much prettier."

That makes Gwaine laugh, just a quiet huff, and he leans back against the rock, looking up at Arthur with something closer to his usual grin. "That I am. I’m also handier with a sword."

"Not hard." Arthur makes himself smile back. "Thank you."

"You’re welcome." Nodding just once, Gwaine sits forward and starts to rummage through the pile of things at his feet. Arthur hadn’t realised he’d managed to grab so much from the cart. There’s a pile of crossbow bolts, a length of dark cloth, a couple of daggers and, most importantly, a leather bag that Gwaine fumbles open. His fingers must be as cold as Arthurs, and it takes him a while to get the lacing undone. When he manages it, though, he gives Arthur a look of pure triumph.

"We’ve got a long walk," he says, fishing in the bag. "So first, we dine."

There’s a couple of rolls, a piece of hard cheese wrapped in muslin, and the heel end of a cooked ham. It’s possibly the worst meat Arthur has ever tasted, and he could weep, he’s so grateful. 

Some of that must show on his face, even past the roll that he’s trying not stuff in his mouth all at once, because Gwaine’s grin gets even wider. 

"Nice to see that being king hasn’t changed you too much. Your table manners are still appalling."

"While yours are the talk of the court," Arthur says, raising an eyebrow as Gwaine tries to stuff both cheese and bread in his mouth at the same time, not entirely succeeding.

They eat in silence, and they eat quickly. The sun has come up fully behind the clouds now, and it will be noon before they know it. If they are to have any chance of reaching Ismere before nightfall, they must move quickly. Gwaine must sense that too, because he’s packing up their meagre supplies before Arthur has finished. 

"We’ll have to follow the crevasse," he says, getting to his feet and surveying the landscape. "Hopefully we can get across somewhere else, find our own path. I don’t like the idea of running into those animals again."

"Agreed." With the sword safely back in his belt, and food inside him, Arthur is starting to feel human again. He has something to focus on again, and new hope that there might actually be an end to all this. The sun has come out from behind its clouds, making the icy wastes blindingly bright, almost glittering in the light. "Come on," he says, clapping Gwaine on the shoulder as they start to walk. "Let’s bring Merlin home."

~

_The hall was not as impressive as Arthur remembered. It was still huge, its ceiling so high it was shrouded in darkness, and the walls were punctuated with shadowy alcoves. But the scent of decay was heavy in the air, and with everything covered in dust, it was hard for him to compare it favourably to the bright, warm throne room in Camelot._

 _"_ Forbearnan," Merlin whispered, making the great fireplace burst into life, heat rolling off it and flames crackling against the stones.

"Better." Arthur gave Merlin a sidelong smile. "Don’t suppose you can do anything about the dust?"

"Not unless you want to be choking on it for the next hour."

"Thanks, this is fine. A little more light would be good, though."

Almost before he’d finished speaking, all the candelabra in the hall were suddenly alight, bathing them in a warm, golden glow.

"Anything else?" Merlin asked dryly. "Clean your boots, polish your armour?"

"I think this will do, thank you." He didn’t resist as Merlin came to help him with his cloak, though. "It feels like a long time since we were here." They’d only spent one night here, a ragtag group with the insane idea of rescuing Uther and somehow reclaiming Camelot from Morgana. The place loomed large in Arthur’s memory, though. This was where he’d made his friends into knights. This was where he’d broken his father’s commands, openly and truly, for the first time. This was where he’d taken the first oaths of loyalty, where he’d known for sure whom he could trust through all things. 

As though sensing some of his thoughts, Merlin glanced across, something close to a smile on his lips. "Another life," he said, and something caught in his throat. He coughed. "We should make a start if we’re going to get back by nightfall."

The cover was still on the floor where Arthur had left it, and Merlin helped him move it out of the way.

"This is it." Slowly, Arthur reached out and put his hand on the stone table. It was rough under his fingers, the dust of years sticking to his skin as he traced the carvings. Behind him, Merlin made an abrupt, startled sound, cutting into Arthur’s train of thought. "Merlin," he said, leaning forwards enough to press his hand flat. "If you’re going to tell me this is some sort of ancient, sacred site and we’ve just upset its guardian spirit, I swear-"

"Shut up."

Six months ago, still newly back on his throne and with too much still to prove, Arthur would have ignored an instruction like that, mostly on principle. He’d learned a lot in six months.

Glancing around, he hooked a chair with one foot, dragging it close enough to sit down. From the careful way Merlin was moving, his hands outstretched and lips moving soundlessly, this could take a while. He started to slowly circle the table, hands stopping just shy of touching it, although he traced each of the carved words in the air as he passed. As far as Arthur could tell, Merlin had completely forgotten he was there, until Arthur started to lift his hand from the table.

"No," Merlin said sharply. "Leave it there." 

A little startled, but willing to go along for the moment, Arthur put his hand back down again, trying not to be concerned by the way Merlin’s eyes were distant, almost glazed. He finally completed his circuit of the table, stopping to Arthur’s right, where he had sat before. 

"Merlin?" Arthur was only slightly worried about breaking Merlin’s concentration at this point, because his silence was much more unsettling. 

"Can’t you feel it?" Merlin’s voice was little more than a whisper. "It was there last time, but not as strongly as this. It’s different now."

"What’s different?" Strange pronouncements were one thing, and Arthur was getting used to those. This distance in Merlin’s eyes, the way his hands shook as he finally pressed them to the surface of the table, was something much worse. "Merlin, what’s going on?"

"This." With one of his hands still pressed to the stone, right over the word carved into it, Merlin reached out with the other and took hold of Arthur’s wrist. 

Light flooded in, as though the hall had been filled with a thousand candles, all shining and flickering at once. The dust was gone, and Arthur could see what this place had been like before the stone had started to crumble, before it had been a bolt-hole for thieves and outlaws. No people appeared, but he could hear the sound of voices, people laughing and talking together, the whole hall filling with noise and life. Under his hand, the table was new again, the carvings as sharp as the day they’d been finished, and there was power flowing from it, making the air crackle and thrum. 

For an instant, the weight of centuries bore down on Arthur, bending him forwards in his chair. There was so much hope in this room, so many expectations that the decisions taken at this table would change the future, would make things better. All of those possibilities and plans came together in one blinding moment, centring on him in a burden that was surely too much to bear. He gritted his teeth against the crushing pressure, lifting his head to look at Merlin, whose eyes glowed even in the eerie brightness, and suddenly Merlin’s hopes were added to the rest, overwhelming Arthur so suddenly that he had to close his eyes or be swallowed by them. He sat at the crux of all those dreams, feeling them surround him, knowing that he wasn’t worthy to carry so much hope, and knowing just as surely that he had to do it anyway.

Slowly, Arthur opened his eyes again, still finding it hard to breathe against the fear knotting inside his chest and his mind swirling with too many thoughts. Merlin was still watching him, his eyes still molten, something more than human, until he smiled. With a nod that might have been acknowledgement, might have been a bow, and that felt a lot like acceptance, he uncurled his fingers from around Arthur’s wrist.

As soon as Merlin took his hand away, the vision was gone, and they were sitting in the half-darkness again. Even the lights that Merlin had lit earlier seemed dim now, the air stale and musty. 

His mind empty and echoing, Arthur looked up at Merlin, who was leaning forwards, hands braced on the table and head hanging low. His first question died in his throat, because really, he didn’t need to ask. This castle had been where the kings of old had met and settled their differences, where they had forged alliances, and where they had ensured fair and just governance for all. He’d taken his inspiration from it without ever really knowing the full extent of what that would mean.

Merlin staggered back a few steps, dropping into a chair and closing his eyes. Around them, some of the lights flickered, casting more shadows across the cobwebbed walls. 

"Sorry," he said, voice rasping. "Didn’t know that was going to happen."

Shaking his head, because he was well used to the idea that Merlin thought of actions first and consequences after, if at all, Arthur sighed. "I’d ask you what that was, but I don’t really think I need to, do I?"

Merlin turned his head, raising one eyebrow although he didn’t open his eyes. "You’re learning after all. And there’s me telling Gwen there was no hope for you."

"Merlin." He’d meant the word to sound like a warning, not a question, and Merlin smiled.

"No, Arthur, you don’t need to ask." Still moving slowly, Merlin rested his arms on those of the chair, letting his hands fall open, palms towards the ceiling. The lights that had been dying surged back into life. It was a pale echo of the vision he’d conjured before, and something about it made Arthur shiver. 

"You know I’m going to anyway," he said, trying to banish the feeling that he was being watched from the deeper shadows. 

"Of course." Merlin sighed, and when he opened his eyes to look over at Arthur, they were back to their normal blue, only the slightest tinge of gold still showing. "That, your majesty, was destiny."


	10. Emrys

  
_Ultimately, the only power to which man should aspire is that which he exercises over himself._  
Elie Wiesel

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

Aeldred reins in his horse at the top of the rise, feeling its chest rise and fall beneath his legs. It’s as tired as they all are, the forced pace from Camelot wearing them all down. The effort was worth it, though, and he smiles a little as Leon draws up next to him, his own mount panting and shifting restlessly.

"We should reach Ismere by nightfall," Aeldred says.

Leon nods. "Elyan has scouted ahead, and he's sure that the route is safe for the horses, as long as we don’t push them too hard."

Safe is relative out here, where they must be alert to danger from their enemies and the landscape both. But if the scouts think the horses can find sure footing, then Aeldred will trust them. 

"Have they seen any patrols? Any sentries?"

"Nothing." Leaning forwards, Leon runs a soothing hand down his horse’s neck, although whether it is to soothe man or beast, Aeldred cannot tell. "They must still be searching out to the west of the city. I’ve sent some men that way as well to try and keep them occupied."

It’s a good plan, and Aeldred nods his acknowledgement. Closing his eyes, he reaches out with his other senses, trying to find anything that might be of use to them on the path ahead. The wind is howling over the tundra, whipping up snow and ice crystals into fierce maelstroms before dying away again. They should be sheltered enough on the low path they have chosen, and he focusses harder on that, trying to see beyond the immediate.

There is something just out of the corner of his eye, moving before he can turn to it, cracks racing across vision as though the whole world is made of glass that is starting to shatter. He reached out a hand instinctively, trying to hold it back, and knowing that it is too late. The cracks deepen, cutting through earth and sky, leaving jagged black holes in the snow and clouds. There is a cry on the wind, almost too distant for him to hear. 

"Aeldred!" 

Leon’s hand is on his shoulder, both their horses pawing at the ground beneath them and shuddering as though startled. Aeldred shakes his head, trying to clear it, and draws in two long breaths before he attempts to speak. 

"I’m fine. Please, Leon." He puts his hand on the other man’s, gently taking it from his shoulder. "I’m fine," he repeats, for both their benefits. 

"What did you see?"

Shaking his head again, Aeldred says, "I do not know. But we must hurry."

Leon is a good man and does not ask any more questions. As he turns his horse, Aeldred looks out over the landscape again, shivering a little. They will get a lot colder before they reach Ismere, he knows, but the chill down his own back has little to do with the weather, and he wonders, not for the first time, if they are already too late.

~

"Did you know?" Morgana’s voice rings through the hall, echoing strangely from the stones. As she comes closer, she lifts a scrap of something, holding it out towards him, and he sees writing on the parchment, too small for him to read. "Did you know what he was going to do?"

Merlin opens his mouth to speak, to ask what she’s talking about, but Morgana’s eyes burst into golden light, and there is suddenly an unbearable pressure around his throat, choking off the words. He can barely breathe past it, and the shock of it drops him to his knees, fingers scratching uselessly at his neck more out of reflex than because he thinks it will help. 

He manages to scrape a breath past the constriction, looking up into Morgana’s face as she stands over him. "I don’t know," he gasps out, each word costing him valuable air, "what you’re-"

"Ruadan," Morgana says, her eyes narrowing as she leans closer. "Did you know that he was going after his whelp of a daughter? Did you know?"

"No." It’s true. For all that he’d seen Ruadan’s fear and concern, Merlin had thought him too loyal to disobey Morgana’s commands. 

Morgana eases her hold a little, the invisible hand at his throat loosening. "But you knew something, didn’t you? You did something." Her eyes roam over him, as though she could see through to whatever it is that he’s hiding. "What happened?"

Even without the faint touch to his throat, which might be Morgana’s hand still, or might just be Merlin’s memory playing tricks on him, he sees no need to lie. "He wanted to know about his daughter. He loved her, and you told him to abandon her to her fate. What did you think was going to happen?"

"This is war." One of Morgana’s hands is wrapped around a bar of the cage, and Merlin watches her knuckles whiten as she leans in. "There is no room for love."

"What about loyalty?" The grip on his throat tightens again, reacting to her anger, and he manages a choked smile. "You told me once that you understood that, at least."

"His loyalty was supposed to be to me," Morgana snaps. She jerks her head, and the pressure increases so that Merlin can’t breathe at all for a moment. Then it pushes at him, as though a fist is being slammed into his sternum , and he sprawls across the floor of the cage, gasping. 

When he has enough breath, he lifts himself up on his elbows enough to see her, forcing each word out through his raw throat. "True loyalty comes from love, Morgana, and even you don’t have the power to force people to love you."

He’s braced for another blow, almost falling anyway when it doesn’t come, as his arms tremble beneath him. On the other side of the bars, Morgana is giving him a strange look, calculating and serious, some of her anger bleeding away.

"Then maybe what I need is more power." She tilts her head a little, voice softer now, more cajoling. "Where is the Diamair?"

Merlin blinks at her, thrown for a moment. "What?"

"You must be able to sense it, surely. Something that important, I’m sure the great Emrys can find it with his eyes closed."

"I don’t know," Merlin says, and he forces himself to sit up properly, to face her. "I don’t even know what the Diamair is, much less where to find it."

"Don’t lie to me!" Her shout is startling in the quiet, and it takes an effort of will for Merlin to lock his shaking arms, keeping his eyes fixed on her. He is so tired of this.

"Morgana, I don’t know what you think I can do, but I really don’t know what the Diamair is." Slowly, painfully, he gets his feet under him and stands. "And even if I did, there is nothing you can do to me that would make me tell you."

She laughs, sudden and terrifying and with an edge of something else, something that might be closer to madness. "The Diamair is power, Merlin. It will give me the power to restore magic to its rightful place."

"Magic is already restored," he says, "Arthur has-"

"He has done nothing! Agreeing not to kill those with magic is hardly the same as giving us our due honour. We should be ruling this land, not grovelling at the feet of kings." She gives him a contemptuous look. "Once I have the Diamair, I will know everything I need. If you help me, this will all be over much sooner for you."

"You tried that before," he says, remembering the pain that she’d used to try and prise answers from him. At least this time he feels stronger, more ready to meet her head on. 

The smile she gives him is such a parody of the Morgana he used to know that it makes his stomach twist. The sympathy and affectionate humour is overshadowed by the cruelty in it, the knowingness. "My dear Merlin, I was barely trying."

The words resonate in his mind, shuddering through him. They say it too often, all of them, and the words have never really registered with him. 

Morgana is a High Priestess. 

It’s not an empty title, he of all people should know that. He’d barely been able to defeat Nimueh, drawing on the raw power of nature as the only force strong enough to overwhelm her. When Morgana had taken Camelot as her place of power, it had needed a sword forged in the dragon’s breath to break the enchantment. And now, he is standing in a cage suffused with her magic, with no access to his own. He’d barely resisted her last time, saved by interruption rather than any actions of his own. If she chooses to bring her power to bear against him, he doesn’t know what will happen.

Whether because she knows him too well, or because she can sense his thoughts through the cage, Morgana’s smile widens a little, moves closer to genuine amusement. 

"Oh yes, you do well to fear me. To fear what I can do to you."

Her eyes are alight with something, and in her face, he can see that she is already anticipating victory. He’d expected to be more frightened than this, to have to swallow back the fear as he always does, and to face whatever she has to throw at him with a courage that he has learned from Arthur. Except what he actually feels is pity, for the manic edge to her expression, the way her mouth twists and her hands clench at her sides. Pity, and more than a little guilt, that his friend has come to this. 

He doesn’t try to hide that, lets his expression fall and releases his tight hold on himself, hoping that she will be able to sense what he is feeling. It’s a risk, but a calculated one; her temper has always been Morgana’s undoing. Perhaps this way, she will forget not to kill him before she gets what she wants.

As her anger flares, lighting sparks of pain across Merlin’s skin, he has a brief moment to regret being right, then his thoughts are full of fire as well. Dimly, he is aware that he has fallen, the pain of his knees against the wood just a distant echo beyond the screaming agony that sweeps through the rest of his body. 

"The prophecies say Emrys will be my doom," Morgana says, and there is magic in her words, letting them carry into Merlin’s mind above the sound of what he realises are his own screams. "But from where I’m standing, Merlin, you seem to be the one who is doomed. Perhaps you and I are going to defy prophecy together."

Her next words are softer, blurring into each other and Merlin doesn’t have enough strength to strain to hear them. Every part of him hurts, and there is nowhere for him to retreat to when even his mind is full of pain. The words must be a spell, though, because when she stops, the fire that fills his body is gone, replaced with coldness so complete that he fears it will shatter him. He is twitching with the burn of it, body spasming helplessly, and every time he comes into contact with the floor or the bars, it's a sharp ache that makes him twitch away. 

Above it - above him - he hears Morgana speaking again, and he tries to curl up, cover his ears against the sound, but even contact with his own skin hurts him more.

"How much more do you think you can take?" Morgana asks, her voice so soft and thoughtful that Merlin has to look at her, has to force his eyes open, although even that movement makes his face feel as though it is shattering. "How much more will it take before you tell me what I want to know?"

Talking will hurt, and it will cost him energy that he cannot spare. Still, Merlin focuses on getting the words out, pushing them past lips that are so dry that he wonders they don’t crack as he speaks. "I don’t know." It’s not much more than a whisper, his lungs stinging with every breath as he shivers. "I don’t have the answers you want."

"I don’t believe you." She presses harder, her whole body leaning against the bars now.

He wants to stay in the darkness, escaping from the agony that wracks his body, and he wonders if he can just close his eyes and sink into it. Then he feels something different, a pressure against his mind this time, trying to break through his defences, and he knows that the rest was just preparation for this, to wear him down enough that Morgana can find her way in. He doesn’t know what she’s looking for, what it is she thinks she will find, but he knows that this is not a battle he can afford to lose. His body will heal; whatever she does to him here will not. 

Instinctively, he reaches for his magic, crying out when the spell on the cage stops him, sparking and tingling over his skin. Morgana takes the chance to push closer, searching for a weak spot. Merlin thrashes, as though he can fight her off somehow, instinct taking over again as he realises that he doesn’t have the energy to resist her any more.

The power comes from inside him, so deep that at first he doesn’t even notice it. This isn’t magic that he has control over, nothing like the spells he is used to, or the power that flows through him from the earth. This is something wild and primal, a reflex reaction that he can’t control, only observe. He feels the rush of it, filling his veins and making his ears ring as it floods into his mind, forcing Morgana back. 

It’s the first breath of air after drowning, a lightness in his heart and mind that he can’t ever remember feeling before, as though all he has to do is blink and the world will snap into place around him, the way it should be. He opens his eyes, and his vision is full of light, highlighting every bar of the cage and surrounding Morgana when he turns to look at her. There is light everywhere, flowing from a warm power that feels comfortingly familiar and utterly alien at the same time, like a friend he is meeting for the first time. It’s not his own magic, of that he’s certain, even if he can direct it for now. He feels as he does when Arthur steps in front of him, sword and shield raised. Wherever the power has come from, he knows that it is more than enough to protect him.

It’s more even than that, though, the power taking his anger and frustration and seeming to feed on it, growing until he has to grit his teeth, trying to fight it back. It’s a blinding fury, the sort that drives men to fight even when all hope is lost, until they destroy everything around them in their madness. He knows that with this sort of power behind his anger, he could level this castle to the ground, leave nothing but dust behind, and he wants to do it. There would be peace in that sort of oblivion, letting the white light behind his eyes burn freely until nothing is left.

Then Morgana pushes in harder, trying to break down the last of his defences, and he can no longer fight it, giving himself to the flood that rushes through, and letting himself be swept away in it.

~

They are sheltering in a shallow hollow within in sight of the castle when it happens, the tremor rumbling through the ground under their feet. Arthur lifts his head in time to see a flash of light from somewhere in the castle, so bright that it seems to burst through all the windows and arrow slits at once. The panic overtakes him, so that he’s halfway to his feet before he knows what he’s doing, and it’s only Gwaine’s hand on his arm, fingers digging in painfully, that brings him back to himself.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Gwaine says in a fierce whisper, dragging Arthur back down and shoving him against the low bank. "What is wrong with you?"

"Merlin," Arthur says, with absolute certainty. "We have to get in there."

"We have to get in there in one piece," Gwaine corrects. "You’re no good to any of us dead."

Arthur forces himself to take two deep breaths, trying to release some of the fear that is clutching at his heart. Once he relaxes a little, Gwaine lets go, looking over the edge of their cover again. 

"I don’t think anyone saw," he says, ducking down again. "You might be an idiot, but you’re a lucky one, I’ll give you that." He gives Arthur a sidelong look. "You okay?"

"Fine." The word is shaky, but Arthur finds that he means it. Now that the panic has retreated, he can think clearly, the burst of fearful energy giving him purpose rather than blinding him. 

Beside him, Gwaine is sitting forwards, his knees drawn up and elbows resting on them. His head is bowed, and his voice muffled as he says, "Do you think-"

"No." This time, Arthur’s voice is steady, certain. It’s enough to make Gwaine raise his head a little, glancing at him. "I’ve seen Merlin make light like that before. That’s his weapon, not Morgana’s. He’s still waiting for us."

It’s Gwaine’s turn to take a couple of long breaths this time, and when he finally turns to Arthur, he seems to have steadied himself. "So what do we do next?"

"Get in there and rescue him." Arthur peers over the edge of the hollow more carefully this time, scanning the walls of the castle in the fading evening light. 

"Any bright ideas how we do that?"

There are men moving along the battlements, Arthur can see, but there aren’t nearly enough to cover the whole perimeter. Once close in to the walls, there’s a good chance that they’ll be able to move along them without being seen. All they need to do then is get inside.

Gwaine snorts when Arthur says as much. "Is that all? And here’s me thinking it was going to be difficult." He leans against the bank and gives Arthur his most sceptical look. 

Arthur grins. "There’s always a way."

~

Merlin opens his eyes and sees nothing. There is nothing to see but whiteness, as though he is being blinded by a light too strong to see past. He tries opening his eyes again, but he knows this is not a real enough world for that to work.

_Emrys._

The word echoes inside Merlin’s head, as though hearing it in someone else’s voice. No, he realises groggily, that is someone else’s voice, a memory that’s stirring from somewhere deep at the back of his mind.

Aithusa. She’d said it to him, put the word in his head with an insistence he hadn’t understood at the time, and is having trouble grappling with now. His mind feels empty and adrift, as though detached from everything but the hum of magic that ripples through him. He tries to reach out and grasp the word, seeking any kind of anchor in this strange, blank place that he is trapped in.

_Emrys_

He turns his face towards the voice, still trying to move a body that is no longer his. This is not true sight, he knows, just the blankness of his own mind staring back at him, pale and empty, nothing left.

_Emrys_

No, not true emptiness. There is something far away from him, as though standing on the crest of a distant hill. The small dragon is white, her skin bleached and bloodless, but she seems dark against the whiteness of his mind around her. Merlin reaches out to her, would stretch out his hand if he knew how, if there was any part of him still connected to his body. He stretches out his mind instead, testing the limits of his strength and finding they fall short. 

Something must change, though, a ripple of something in the fabric of this place making Aithusa turn. She is still so tiny, so far away, but he can see her eyes fixed on his, as wide and mournful as before. Merlin doesn’t have a mouth to call to her, no voice to make her come to him, and frustration makes him angry again.

Aithusa dips her head, and he feels something push against his mind, silent words forming in a language that he barely understands and cannot make sense of. Dragontongue is a lost language to him, the words only intelligible when he is saying them, and even then, he understands the intention more than the words themselves. They echo around him, trying to press in, and he feels a frustration that comes from outside him this time. 

The words fade away, the echoes piling on top of each other until they merge into one and disappear, lost to him again. Then there is one word, clear at last.

_"Δρακωνκυριος."_

It isn’t a word he’s heard before, and he knows he’s not really hearing it now, not without his physical body to take in the sound. But he knows what it means, and the meaning cuts through the whiteness around him, a black slash that splits his world apart. It hurts, more than he thought possible, and he clings to the pain, to the immediacy of it, to the idea that he is real, that he is not lost forever in this strange, empty world.

_"Dragonlord."_

It is his anchor, his safe place to stand as the world crumbles around him and he falls, breathless, back into his own body. This time when he opens his eyes, he sees darkness. He blinks for a moment, bright spots dancing in front of his eyes and reassuring him that yes, this time, this is real. 

The darkness is not complete as the light had been, and he realises he is still in the great hall. Night is falling rapidly outside, the sky beyond the broken windows falling into deeper shades of grey. Soon it will be black, and there will be no light at all to see by in here.

Something nudges at Merlin’s arm, the shock of the sensation making him blink fully awake. He turns his head slowly, and his fingers clutch reflexively in surprise, scraping through dust and pebbles. Above him, Aithusa tilts her head a little as though trying to see him better, her face so close to his that he feels the warmth of her breath stirring his hair.

"Aithusa?"

She makes a sound that is somewhere between a cry and a moan, pushing her nose against his shoulder again as though trying to stir him. Merlin is still dizzy and confused, his mind a raw ache inside his head, but he makes himself sit up anyway. His body responds sluggishly, as though not quite connected to his brain yet, and his limbs feel heavy and distant. It is as though he has been filled with water, heavy and swirling and exaggerating every movement, forcing him to go slowly or be dragged along with its momentum. 

Around him, the hall is ruined. More ruined, he corrects himself, gradually pulling his feet up in the hopes of standing. The piles of stones and rubble have been joined by tiny fragments that glitter in the light of the fires that are burning in places, and there is the smell of smoke in the air. He turns his head slowly, fearful of falling, and looks to where the cage had stood. There is nothing left. With a start that threatens to upset his precarious balance, he realises that the glittering specks are the metal of the bars, and that the fires must be burning on the remains of the wooden floor. He cannot see Morgana anywhere.

With a groan, he makes it to his feet, Aithusa immediately pressing herself against him, helping him keep his balance. It’s hard to think over the aching in his head, so he doesn’t try, just puts a hand on her back to steady himself, her skin warm and dry under his. 

She calls out again, and he runs a hand down her spine, feeling the bones shift under his fingers. The feel of her, of what has been done to her, makes anger and guilt flare in him again, his magic responding and for a moment, his vision whites out again. That power is lurking below the surface yet, waiting to be unleashed, and Merlin drops to his knees, pressing his face to Aithusa’s side as he tries to get it to subside. It’s too much, too soon. 

He is free. It is all he has wanted for days, and now he is here, he cannot stop his hands from shaking, cannot keep the power contained. He feels close to truly breaking for the first time, no longer safe within his own skin. Whatever did this, he cannot allow it near anyone else until he can control it. If he can control it.

"We have to go," he says, his voice hoarse and distant. "Please, Aithusa. We can’t stay here."

There is a moment’s hesitation, then she turns her head to press against him, urging him back to his feet. The magic is still rolling under his skin, making him lightheaded, and only Aithusa’s steady presence is grounding him now. He trusts her, now that he cannot trust himself, and he keeps one shaking hand on her back as she makes her way through the destruction. At one point, he thinks he sees a splash of black cloth against the grey stone, but he deliberately looks away, knowing that if it is Morgana, he will not be able to restrain himself again, and he does not want to retreat back into that empty place now. He must focus on what is here, what is now, and on the feel of the dragon at his side, leading him away.

~

Arthur thinks he can feel the whole of Ismere pressing down on him, the stones bearing down until he finds it hard to breathe. In front of him, Gwaine keeps up his steady pace, muttering under his breath softly, although not softly enough that Arthur can’t hear him swear.

"Just be glad there wasn’t a guard on it," he says, concentrating on the way ahead. 

There is a break in the muttering, as though Gwaine is thinking about that. "Does anyone anywhere guard the-"

"Camelot does." It doesn’t seem to make much difference whether Arthur breathes through his mouth or his nose; the smell is just as noxious. "So that no one can do something like this."

"No one else would be crazy enough to do something like this. And it’s not like you could bring an army in this way."

"Two men are enough," Arthur says firmly. "If they could open the castle gates from the inside."

"Fair point." The passage they are crawling through is on a steeper incline now, and Gwaine grunts a little as he drags himself up. "Of course, there might be a guard on the inside," he says. 

"Always the optimist." It’s a possibility, of course, and Arthur has a moment of indecision as to whether he should make Gwaine swap places with him. Then he hears the tumble of something, and Gwaine’s indignant spluttering, and decides that going second has some advantages after all.

"Vegetable peelings," Gwaine says, pulling something out of his hair. "I’m guessing we’re near the kitchens."

That will put them at the heart of the castle, but it’s also where they stand the highest chance of running into someone who could raise the alarm. 

"Keep going," Arthur says, and ducks as Gwaine throws something back at him. 

He obeys, though, starting to crawl upwards again. "I’m starting to wish we hadn’t eaten before we came," he mutters.

They are filthy and panting by the time they drag themselves out of the passage - Arthur is determined to keep thinking of it as a passage, because that lets him not think about what they were crawling through. The room at the end is a storeroom of some kind, smelling of decay and stale beer, and with nothing in it but a few barrels and sacks.

Gwaine tries to brush himself down, giving up after a moment with a look of disgust. "What next, oh wise leader?" he asks, wiping something from the hilt of his sword.

"Down. If Annis’ people are still alive, they’ll be underneath the castle." They’d seen no signs of anyone working above ground from their earlier vantage point, and as much as Arthur wants to start searching the castle for Merlin, he’ll stand a much better chance of moving freely once they have a distraction. 

"Dungeons. Wonderful. You’re really giving me the grand tour of the place today." For all his complaining, Gwaine has drawn his sword and there is a look of grim readiness on his face. "Let’s hope we run into someone on the way."

Normally Arthur tries to rein in Gwaine’s eagerness for action, since his recklessness has a tendency to get them both into more trouble than they can get out of. This time, he gives Gwaine a broad, knowing smile that has no amusement behind it. "Let’s hope we do," he says, his own sword settling comfortably into his hands. "If we’re going to move around here, we’re going to need a change of clothing."

Gwaine grins back, baring his teeth in a gesture so feral that Arthur wonders if there is wolf somewhere in his ancestry. "Of course, sire," he says. "I’m sure someone can be persuaded to help us with that."

~

Merlin hasn’t even realised his mind is wandering until he comes back to himself with a jolt so hard it drops him to his knees, making him cry out. Blinking his eyes open, he has a moment of panic when he thinks he must have gone blind until his eyes adjust and he realises he is in some sort of cave, nothing but pitch black darkness all around him. He shuts his eyes again, trying to get them to adjust, and-

_Morgana screamed as the light burst out of the cage. She tried to raise a hand to shield herself, but it was useless, the force was too strong and the light too bright. Everything seemed to slow, the sound of the metal bars ripping and twisting, the splintering sound of wood shattering apart. The spell that had been binding the cage shattered at the same time, the magic simply ripping apart under the pressure of the force._

_Then she was flying through the air, seeing fires leap into life around her and there was just enough time to wrap her arms around her head before she hit the ground._

\- see the space around him better. 

On the other hand, if that’s going to happen every time, he might just work on never blinking again. 

Beside him, Aithusa stirs, her muzzle pressed in tight against his side, and he reaches up almost absently to stroke down her neck, as much to comfort himself as her. He gets to his feet carefully, knees wobbling but holding him up for now, and his hand on Aithusa’s flank reassuring him that, at least for now, he is back in the real world. 

The roof of the cave is high enough that he doesn’t hit his head, and his eyes are starting to adjust a little at last. There’s a little light from a passageway to his left, so he turns to his right, trying to see if there are darker patches in the darkness that might be other routes out of here. Caves don’t scare him, not after spending so much time in the ones near Ealdor as a boy, not after-

_Arthur’s ribs were hurting almost too much for him to breathe, and his blood was pounding in his ears, but he could hear Agravaine talking, voice echoing off the small cave. Merlin was backed up against the opposite wall, his hands still raised and his face blank. Whatever Agravaine was saying to him, it was making Merlin’s eyes grow impossibly wide, whether with fear or anger, Arthur couldn’t tell._

_The caves were supposed to have been a way to escape, to run from the last of Morgana’s forces, and after the dragon’s attack on the men outside, Arthur had thought they were free. He spared a thought for Gwen, Tristan, and Isolde, waiting for them further down this labyrinth of rock, and knew in that instant that he would not die here. He would not give Agravaine the satisfaction._

_He was already halfway to his feet when Merlin acted, shoving at Agravaine with the wave of power that Arthur was learning to appreciate. It wasn’t much of a blow, though, and Arthur was glad; he wanted to be the one to finish this. With a last push, he got his feet under him and his sword up as Agravaine staggered towards him._

\- all that had happened there three years ago.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

Merlin shakes his head, the disorientation so much worse when the memory is not his own. Under his hand Aithusa shifts restlessly, his only anchor-point to tell him that he is still here. Feeling Arthur’s fear, his anticipation, and his final contempt for his uncle was so much worse than seeing it had been. Dealing with his own confusion is difficult enough. Adding the jumble of other people’s feelings is going to drive him mad.

Of course, he might be halfway there already. 

He’s standing in a cave under a ruined castle, his body alive with magic and his mind racing, and he has no idea what to do. The power that had tried to overwhelm him feels calmer now, a second skin underneath his own, and while he doesn’t know whether or not he can control it, he is at least in control of himself again.

Unless he isn’t, and he only thinks he is. His mind still feels raw and scraped, and he can’t really trust it yet. If he tries to look back at what happens, the memory will not come back into focus, and he feels himself slipping back into the light.

"I am here" he says aloud, needing to hear the words.

Merlin’s voice echoes strangely off the walls, and he belatedly wonders if it will give him away, if there is anyone close enough to hear. Nothing happens for long minutes, letting him relax a little, looking around again. The last thing he wants to do is use his magic, except that apparently just thinking about it is enough, and a tiny light springs to life in front of him, nearly blinding his dark-adjusted eyes.

The cavern is fairly large, and as he blinks away the spots in front of his eyes, he can see several passageways leading away, as well as the one that seems to have light at the other end. Part of him wants to retreat into the darkness, find somewhere safe to hide, to wait and stop and think. Part of him wants to follow the light, knowing that he has more than enough power to meet whatever he finds at the other end, knowing that-

_Guinevere realised she was standing with her mouth open, and closed it hurriedly as Merlin lifted his hands from the stonework. Knowing about his magic and seeing it were always two very different things, the reality usually quieter, simpler and always more impressive than the images she held in her head. When Merlin had said he’d put the castle under his protection so that it would be safe, even when he was away, she’d imagined something more tangible. Charms and wards and maybe talismans or even carvings on the stone that would show everyone that Camelot's magical barrier was still in place._

_What he had actually done was bring her up to the battlements on the south wall, placed his hands on the stones and closed his eyes. She recognised the words as coming from the magical language he used, but she had no idea what they meant. The effect was clear, though. Golden light swirled around Merlin’s hands for an instant, spreading from them along the top of the wall and down, sparks dancing over the flagstones. It was beautiful._

-he can handle whatever he finds there.

This time, he is disoriented enough by the vision that he staggers a little, the light in front of him dimming as he reaches out to hold himself up on the wall. He knows that if he wanted it, he could see any point in his past, perhaps in his future as well. His mind could travel up to see the whole castle above him, the lands around it, and beyond. 

He blinks as a thought occurs to him, and although it might be a bad idea to use this power while he is still so unsure of it, now the idea is in his head, he has to follow it. Closing his eyes, he pushes just a little, reaching out with his mind. He ignores the castle for now, stretching further to the plains of Ismere, searching and trusting that he will find what he is looking for. Morgana had been right about one thing; Merlin can always find Arthur. And even if Arthur is hidden from him, there is something else that cannot be.

_The castle was in uproar. Men in leather armour were striding down the corridors, their weapons drawn and faces grim. People were shouting to each other, giving orders and calling back reports._

_Arthur looked at Gwaine, who shrugged, then leaned in closer. "Something’s rattled their cage," he murmured._

_"Looks like it." Arthur remembered the flash of light, and the trembling of the ground under their feet, and he saw the same realisation on Gwaine’s face. "Let’s not waste it," he said, lifting his sword a little and waiting for the next running group of men to come past them. Merlin had given them a distraction and Arthur did not intend to waste it._

The sword. Arthur still has the sword. 

Merlin sags in relief, his back hitting the wall hard. Arthur and Gwaine are alive. Of course, he’d rather they were safely back in Camelot than here in Ismere, but for now, they’re alive. The power that had stirred with his fear retreats again, somewhat under his control for now. 

He crouches, bringing his face close to Aithusa’s. 

"Find them," he whispers, daring to put a little force into the words, trusting that the connection to the dragon which had steadied him before won’t let him tip over the edge again. "Find them before Morgana does. Please, Aithusa." 

She looks up at him, and he can feel some of her fear, her reluctance. He knows, suddenly, that she only came to him because he called to her, because he gave her no choice. Now that she has done what he asked, she wants to go back to Morgana, her loyalties still divided. It hurts, and he has to push back the urge to bring more power to bear. 

"Please," he says again, knowing that while he would rather have her cooperation, he’ll put enough of his will into the words to make it a command if he has to. 

He’s relieved when she backs away, turning from him to leave. Fear is still rolling off her, along with distrust, and he bites the inside of his lip to stop him from saying any more. She has reason to be angry with him, he knows, and he promises himself that he will make it up to her later.

It’s only once she’s gone that he notices the light. There’s not much of it, just a gentle glow coming from somewhere behind him, and he turns, still crouched, to try to find the source.

There is a creature standing in one of the narrow passageways, its thin body and elongated head glowing bright in the darkness. It steps towards him, cautious and delicate, one long-fingered hand reaching out placatingly.

"Emrys." Its voice is quiet, almost a whisper, barely echoing in the silence.

Responding to his surprise, Merlin feels his magic reach out, testing whether or not this creature is a threat. He’s bracing himself, ready to try to contain the power if it flares again, knowing he won’t be able to. 

Except nothing happens. The tendrils of magic seem to pass straight through the creature as though it isn’t there, and with nothing to touch or react to, the power simply fades away again. Merlin takes a deep breath, struggling not to sound too relieved as he says, "Who are you?"

The creature doesn’t answer, still holding out its hand, beckoning him. "You are not safe here. Do not fear. She will return soon, but the deeper caverns are a better place to hide."

Without really thinking about it, Merlin straightens up, taking half a step forwards before checking himself. He doesn’t feel afraid of the creature, not really, the power inside of him remaining settled and steady in its presence. Still, he has to know.

"Who are you?" he asks again, determined to have his answer before he goes anywhere.

The creature smiles, and Merlin knows, even before he hears the words, what it will say.

"I am the Diamair."

~

The snowy path beneath their horses is well-trodden, compacted enough that Aeldred is not worried that they will slip. Still, everyone is riding carefully and some of his men have called forth lights to show the way in the growing dark. It’s a calculated risk, the chance of discovery less dangerous than the consequences of a fall. They are having to ride so closely together that one stumble will bring the whole party down. Red cloaks and brown are mingled , overlapping as the riders huddle together for warmth, the breaths of the horses and the men clouding together as the cold closes in.

A little way ahead, Elyan raises a hand to call a halt, and beyond him, Aeldred can see that the path is levelling out, the snow giving way to rocky ground. He kicks his horse forward a little, threading his way through to the front of the group.

Leon doesn’t turn as he says, "The castle is over the next rise. As soon as we emerge from the path, they will see us."

"Then we should make sure they do not see us for what we are until it is too late," Aeldred says, and Leon nods.

"My men are ready."

"As are mine." 

It is an important moment, Aeldred knows. The druids are more used to defending themselves than attacking, and Camelot’s men are more used to open warfare. Whether they can fight together, only the next few hours will tell. He pulls on his reins, turning his horse and looking back at the men, feeling the fear and determination. When he raises his hand, the druids begin to move, bringing their horses closer to the men of Camelot, the magic rippling in the air. Around them all, a mist begins to rise, enough to cover their movements, at least for a time. Hopefully it will be time enough.

He twists in his saddle, meeting Leon’s eyes and seeing his own anticipation mirrored there. 

"Let us begin," he says, and turns his horse towards Ismere.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)


	11. Ismere

  
_Destiny...is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved_  
William Jennings Bryan

The cobbled-together armour itches, pinching against Arthur's skin, too tight in some places and too large in others. Still, he has to admit that he likes the helmet, particularly the face-guard that comes down past his nose. Beside him, Gwaine shifts again, elbow bumping Arthur's.

"Watch it." They're doing what Arthur hopes is a good impression of the other guards, running through the deep hallways of the castle, trying to find a way deeper. 

"How come you got the armour that fitted, and I'm stuck with this sack?" Gwaine complains, pulling at the breastplate that Arthur will concede is at least three inches too big.

"Because I'm the king," he says, shutting his mouth quickly as they turn the corner and nearly run into yet more Saxons. The barked words are unintelligible, but the gesture for 'follow me' is universal. With a glance at Gwaine, Arthur falls in at the back of the group. There are eight other men, and while he's not entirely averse to fighting his way out of here, he'll take better odds if he can get them. 

Frustratingly, the man leads them up rather than down, eventually out into the freezing air again, waving for them to surround the small courtyard. Arthur takes up a position to the side of the main gate, getting his breath back and making a quick survey of his surroundings. There are guards on all the doorways now, obviously prepared for an attack from the inside. In the middle of the yard, burly men in furs are milling around a small cart, pushing a group of tired-looking prisoners into a smaller group.

When Arthur turns to look at Gwaine, he gets the briefest of nods in response, confirming that Arthur is right; these are the men who captured them. Without really thinking about it, his hand closes on the hilt of his sword. 

Someone bumps against him, breaking into his concentration. "We need to wait."

It's so annoying when Gwaine's right. Forcing his hand to unclench, Arthur turns around slowly, pretending to check that there's no one coming over the drawbridge as he gets his temper under control. It's fully dark now, lit only by the full moon. On the ridge above the castle, a mist is rolling in, thick and bright in the moonlight. Arthur frowns, because there's something odd about it, the way it doesn't quite stretch across the whole ridge, the way it seems denser than the evening mist that normally rises from the icy land. He’s sure that it can’t be natural, and it’s thick enough to hide an army behind. It’s a tactic he and Aeldred have discussed before, as a way to provide cover where none can be found. As signs go, they might as well have hoisted the Camelot flag above the fog and had done with it.

Gwaine is still muttering, partly to himself, partly to Arthur, and only half the words are audible, but Arthur hears him say, "There are too damn many of them."

Arthur has to resist the urge to grin. Completing his turn, he bumps against Gwaine, drawing his attention. "Not for much longer."

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

~

Merlin stares at the Diamair, trying to get his thoughts into some kind of order. When Morgana and Ruadan had spoken of it, Merlin had thought it would be some kind of stone, perhaps a crystal. Having a living being sitting in front of him, saying that it holds all the secrets of the world, is more of a surprise than he feels able to handle right now. His hands are shaking as he presses them to his knees, pushing down hard as though it will help to ground him somehow. There is a maelstrom in his mind, too full of fear and magic for him to think clearly. But he needs to think clearly, needs to know, needs to be in control again.

Trying to grasp one thread from the tangle of thoughts make his stomach lurch, the effort almost too much for him, and he falls forwards, every nerve alight until cool, gentle fingers stroke along the back of his neck, their touch soothing him enough to let him right himself, looking up in the Diamair's gentle eyes.

"I have waited a long time for you, Emrys," it says, in that strange half-whisper. 

Just the mention of the word is enough to make something twist inside Merlin, the power pulling at him again. He is dizzy, head spinning with all the possibilities. This power that has been unlocked inside him, together with the knowledge that the Diamair could bring, there is nothing he couldn't do. He could stretch out his hand, and Albion would fall before him.

Gritting his teeth, Merlin pushes the thought out of his head, finding it easier if focuses only what is in front of him. 

"I don't know what to do," he says. That's not what he meant to say, and he hates how helpless it makes him sound. He is a sorcerer, a dragonlord; he is Emrys. He is supposed to know what to do.

The Diamair smiles, a little sadly this time. "You need do nothing. You are safe here for now. Your king and the high priestess are searching for you, though."

"I know." As much as Merlin wants to get up, to find Arthur and Gwaine and leave this place, he's as afraid of what will happen then as if Morgana finds him. He can't control this power, he knows. From what it did to the throne room, he can't bear the thought of letting it free anywhere near the people he loves. But just that thought is enough, his fear bringing the power back to the surface so that he has to clench his fists against it, dropping his head forwards and trying to get his breath back.

"You cannot fight this power forever, Emrys," the Diamair says into the chaos of his mind. "It is part of you." The words have a ring of truth that resonates through Merlin's mind and body, and he knows that if he were to ask, he could have all the answers he desires. Once again, the world seems to have been laid out at his feet, and once again, he reels back from the precipice, too afraid to take that step.

"Stop!" Merlin doesn't want to know, and his panic makes the word a sharp bark. "Don't tell me anything. It’s too much." There’s pressure against his mind again, as though something is trying to break in, and he knows if he lets it, there will be nothing he cannot see or do. He doesn’t want to let that happen.

The Diamair makes an approving sound. "Then you are wise indeed."

That sounds like a compliment, but Merlin can't even nod in acknowledgement. Behind his closed eyes, the world is rushing back into light, his mind pulling him outwards again as the power takes over.

_Morgana will lift her hand, tossing Arthur back against the cave wall. He will hit hard, then crumple to the ground, lifeless._

"No." The word is a whisper, loud in the silent cave, and it takes Merlin a moment to realise that he is the one who spoke. The image of Arthur, slumped on the ground, his eyes closed, is too much for him, and he grinds the heels of his hands against his eyes, trying to rid himself of it. All that happens is that the image leaps into greater sharpness, filling his vision completely, until he can no longer fight it. This is something he must do; the instinct to help Arthur, the knowledge that he can act, is an irresistible force. He can only give into it, his reluctance pushed back by the rushing fear.

Somewhere, deep inside him, the power roars.

~

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Gwaine asks for the fourth time, keeping his voice low.

"I think it’s the best idea we’ve got. This place is like a rabbit warren, and the only way we’re going to find where they’re taking the prisoners is to follow them." 

Most of the guards have relaxed a little now, standing in huddled groups talking softly, or watching the prisoners with hard, narrowed eyes. 

"I still don’t see why I should be the one to follow them," Gwaine says. He has his back to the courtyard, staring out over the drawbridge as though watching for anyone trying to cross. 

"Because if there’s anyone I trust to incite rebellion, it’s you." That earns Arthur a huff of laughter, Gwaine’s breath hanging like mist in the air for a moment. 

"Fair enough." Gwaine turns as another Saxon emerges into the courtyard, barking orders. Behind him, the leader of the slaving party has a satisfied smile on his face as he follows, and Arthur resists the urge to turn away. There’s no way the man will recognise him like this, and any suspicious movement will only draw his attention.

Gwaine drifts over, joining the group of guards seamlessly, mingling with them as they shove at the prisoners, pulling the ones who had slumped down back to their feet and starting to herd them across the courtyard. The slaving group are packing up as well, reloading their cart and talking in low voices as they prepare to leave. Arthur watches them for a few minutes, not sure what it is that’s caught his attention. 

When he realises, he swallows hard enough that he almost chokes. Mordred is not among the party, and Arthur thinks he knows why. Because if Arthur had recognised him after all these years, then Morgana must have known him at once. 

Arthur bites back a curse, also resisting the urge to turn on his heel and hurry back into the castle. If Mordred tells Morgana that Arthur is on his way here, if he tells her how close they came, she will be far more on her guard. Whatever kindness he had shown Arthur before, there is no guarantee that he will not still betray him, wittingly or not. After all, Morgana had been much closer to the boy than Arthur. He glances over his shoulder, to where the mist is thickening all along the ridge, starting to roll down into the valley below and towards Ismere. 

His men will wait until the moon has passed its zenith to attack, Arthur is sure. It’s what he would do, because the full, bright moon is too much of a disadvantage to any attacker. But he’s been standing in the courtyard long enough for his toes to go numb, and he knows there isn’t much time yet. 

Forcing himself to walk normally, casually even, he makes his way to the nearest unguarded doorway, not daring to check if anyone is watching before he slips inside. He has to look assured, as though he belongs here, if he is going to maintain his cover as long as possible.

Fortunately, there is still considerable movement inside the castle, and his swift steps help him blend with everyone else rushing around. Arthur has spent long enough with fighting men to know that the frenzy of activity is largely for show, making enough fuss and noise in obvious places to make whoever is in charge think things are being done. He tries not to join in too much, his heart already pounding too hard in his chest as he counts down the minutes. He has maybe thirty before the forces of Camelot make their attack, perhaps longer if the moon stays as bright as it is. In that time, he must find Mordred and-

He comes to an abrupt halt at a junction of two corridors, letting a group of men with crossbows pass in front of him and trying to finish his thought. Because his first instinct is that Mordred must be silenced, and the method does not matter. Arthur has no problem killing to protect his people, but he remembers Mordred’s attempts to help him out in the snows, the sadness in his eyes, and he tells himself that he must simply get him away from Morgana. Everything else, he’ll deal with when he gets there.

Without noticing, he’s moved into quieter corridors, the stonework finer under his feet, and the doorways carved into elaborate shapes. Slowing, Arthur tries to walk more quietly, listening as well as looking into the rooms he passes. There is the murmuring of voices somewhere, echoing off the walls so that he is having trouble locating the source. 

It isn’t until he turns the next corner that he hears them properly, a man speaking in low, calm tones and a woman’s voice cutting above and across him. 

"It’s not been easy," the man says, and now he is close enough, Arthur can recognise Mordred’s voice. 

"For any of us."

It has been three years since Arthur heard Morgana’s voice, and the sound of it still sends chills through him. 

"I’ve been hunted, even by my own people. I’ve seen how easily men are influenced by power."

"You see a lot."

Arthur creeps closer, missing the next exchange as he concentrates on making no noise. From his new position, he can just about see into the room, which is lit by enough candles to make it seem bright. Morgana is sitting by the fire, her head tipped back against the chair, looking up at Mordred. As Arthur watches, Mordred reaches down for something, then brings a cloth to Morgana’s face, wiping it gently. Now he looks more closely, Arthur can see that Morgana’s dress is torn in places, dusty in others, and there is a bright streak of blood across the back of her hand.

"He had more power than I expected," Morgana says, sounding regretful. "I will not make that mistake again."

"You are not alone in having a prisoner escape," Mordred says, and this is the moment Arthur has been dreading. His hand is already on the hilt of his sword, and he wonders if that will be sufficient protection, if the magic held within it will be able to stop both of them together. He holds back, waiting for his heartbeat to steady as Mordred says, "You know we had Arthur in our grasp? He escaped too."

For a moment, Arthur thinks he will not have to worry about taking them both on, since Morgana rises from her chair, forcing Mordred to take a step back. 

"You let him go?"

"He got away." Mordred has his hands raised, obviously trying to placate her, but Morgana’s temper has always been too fierce to pacify easily. 

"How? Who let him go?"

"It was an accident."

Morgana’s shout startles Mordred as much as it does Arthur, from the way he takes another step back "Kill him! That's all they had to do! I am a High Priestess, I-"

"Morgana." Mordred’s tone has not changed, still low and gentle as before.

"I have the power of the heavens in my hand and yet he continues to defy me!"

"Calm yourself."

"I want his annihilation, Mordred. I want to put his head on a spike and watch as the crows feast on his eyes."

Arthur turns away blinking hard against the sudden pang in his chest. He knew it, of course, but hearing it hurts more than he’d expected. Through everything, Merlin had refused to give up hope that Morgana could come back to them, believing that Aithusa’s decision to go with her had been a sign that not everything of the Morgana they had known had been lost. Hearing the venom in her voice now, Arthur doesn’t think he will be able to hold onto that hope anymore.

His eyes refocus in time to see someone turning the corner of the corridor, the way he himself had come. The man stops short, staring at Arthur for a moment, then asking something in the guttural Saxon tongue. When Arthur doesn’t answer at once, the man asks again, louder this time, loud enough that there is no way Mordred and Morgana cannot have heard him. 

Arthur turns and runs.

~

On the ridge, Aeldred’s horse flinches, and he reaches down automatically to try to soothe it. they have been waiting for a few hours now, letting the men below become accustomed to the mist, and waiting for the moon to sink a little lower, to give them what advantages they can get.

For his part, Aeldred has been reaching out towards the castle, trying to find any within the walls with magic, without alerting Morgana to his probes. He can feel her power wrapped around the walls, enough to protect it from the worst magical attacks, but blind to his gentle touch that means no harm. There is something, lying deep beneath the castle, which slips away every time he thinks he has found it. He doesn’t think it is Emrys, and it is like nothing he has felt before, evading his magic so easily that he is starting to believe he is imagining it. 

His horse shies a little, blowing and puffing, and Aeldred frowns, stroking its neck twice before he feels it as well, the swell of power from within the castle, dark and strong enough to push him away completely. 

Without needing to think, he turns away from the ridge, catching Elyan's attention.

"It is time," he says, making Elyan frown.

"We should let the moon go down more," he says. "There’s still too much light."

"No." Aeldred is sure of this, the coldness creeping up his spine and making his senses tingle. "We must go now or be too late."

Elyan hesitates for only a moment more, his eyes still unsure as he signals for the word to be passed, for the knights to draw up in formation. Once he is sure that the order has been given to everyone, he comes closer to Aeldred, speaking in a low voice. "We risk much if we go too soon."

"And we risk everything if we wait." Aeldred says. "Something has changed, I can feel it."

"Arthur?" 

"I don’t know." His horse is restless underneath him, shifting and pawing at the ground, whether picking up on his emotions or sensing something on its own, he can’t tell. "But I know we must hurry. Is everything ready?"

"The men were just waiting for the word." There is something close to a smile on Leon’s face as he comes up to join them, and Aeldred remembers abruptly that these men are warriors, born into it, just as his people are born into magic. The druids will not take the same thrill from the fight that the knights will, but they will play their part, and he is grateful they will have Camelot’s men at their sides.

"Then the word is given," Aeldred says. He waits for Leon to catch up to him, the two of them trotting side by side for a moment. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Elyan draw his sword, lifting it high for a moment, then sweeping it down.

And Aeldred gives his horse its head and lets it thunder down the ridge, straight into Ismere.

~

_The castle is under attack. Merlin knows this because he can hear the shouts of men, the cries of horses as their riders clash. Closer in, he can hear more shouts and the sound of running feet. There is uproar within in and without, Saxons and knights, peasants with swords and sticks rising up against their captors. Arthur racing through the castle hallways, the sword in his hand._

_Merlin thinks this battle may be in the future, sometime, perhaps. Or maybe the past. It must not be the present._

_If it is the present, then the hue and cry through the castle needs his attention. If it is the present, then Arthur is in danger now, and that must not be. He must not be in danger without Merlin there to protect him. Merlin must-_

Merlin sucks in a long breath, the magic still making his body shudder as he tries to make his eyes work properly again. He is still in the caves below the castle, and his hands are shaking, his breath coming in heaving gasps as though he has been running for too long. Arthur’s danger was what had brought that power racing back through him again, and it is what has brought him back to his body, his mind feeling as though it will break into a thousand pieces trying to hold onto everything at once. 

The Diamair said that this power is part of him, that he could not fight it, and he doesn’t want to. There is something exhilarating in knowing that he could let himself go, becoming part of it, a power that will take him beyond what he has known. He knows that he may lose something in exchange, that there is a price for everything, especially power, and he knows he would give that up willingly, if it would keep Arthur safe.

But not yet. First he must find Arthur before Morgana does. Then he will deal with the consequences.

Summoning a light, Merlin lifts his head, pushing the weariness to the back of his mind, and presses on into the caves.

~

There is no hiding now. The alarm bell has been rung, clanging above him as he hurries down another corridor. He has made his way through the castle in one piece, if not without a fight. His arm aches from blocking a blow from a huge man with a battle axe, and there is someone else’s blood smeared on the back of his hand.

He throws himself around the next corner, sword already up and ready, only to have it parried away, the clash of steel ringing in his ears. It’s enough to bring him up short and make him look at his attacker.

"Gwaine?"

"Arthur." Gwaine pulls off the helmet, grinning broadly and lowering his sword. He tugs at the leather breastplate as well, removing it with obvious relief. "What happened?"

Arthur has opened his mouth to reply when the corridor echoes with shouts, and a band of ragged-looking men come rushing around the corner, armed with swords and pickaxes and what appear to be a few spades. Gwaine turns to them, lifting his hands to bring them to a stop.

"It’s alright," he says, waving a hand vaguely at Arthur. "He’s with me."

"Wonderful." Pulling off his own helmet, Arthur surveys the mob behind Gwaine. "I’ve put you at the head of your own army."

"And finer men you could never hope to find," Gwaine says, turning his sword with a flick of his wrist. "What’s going on?"

This time, Arthur is interrupted by a cry from outside, audible even above the pealing of the warning bell. He rolls his eyes. 

"You can’t even finish a damn sentence in this place," he says, stepping over to the narrow window. Gwaine comes over to join him, putting one hand on Arthur’s shoulder to balance as he leans over. 

Outside, the courtyard is in uproar, full of men on horseback running down Saxons who are fleeing from them, or who are turning to fight only to be cut down by swords or tossed aside by magic. There are red and brown cloaks everywhere, and Arthur feels almost giddy at the sight of knights and druids fighting side by side. 

"Looks like the cavalry’s here," Gwaine says, squeezing Arthur’s shoulder. "And they’re having all the fun."

Shaking his head, Arthur pulls back from the window and glances at the men behind Gwaine. They are obviously the men from Caerleon, dressed in what is left of their tunics, and all of them look gaunt and tired. There is fire in their eyes, though, and they are holding their motley collection of weapons with clear intent. Arthur could wish for a worse army at his back.

"Take your men and get to it, then," he says, jerking his head towards the fight. 

It seems to be all the encouragement the men need, and Arthur steps out of the way to let them past. He grabs Gwaine, though, before he can follow them. 

"Have you seen anything of Merlin?"

There is something tight and hard behind Gwaine’s eyes as he shakes his head. "The men heard the same thing we did, near on shook the place down, they said. After that, nothing. Except." He hesitates, stepping closer as though afraid to be overheard. "They said they’ve heard something moving about in the caves beyond where they were working. One of them said he thought it sounded like a monster, but I was thinking. What if it was a dragon?"

It’s not much, but it will do. Arthur grips Gwaine’s arm. "Show me how you got down here, then get out there and make sure none of them get themselves killed."

"You’re going alone?"

"They’re untrained peasants, Gwaine. Even with our men here, some of them are going to die if they try to take on the Saxons alone."

Gwaine gives him a hard look, "That’s going to happen anyway, Arthur. I’m good, but I’m not that good."

There’s no explaining it, Arthur just knows somehow. He shakes his head. "You’re going to have to trust me on this, Gwaine. I’ll be fine."

"You're not that good either, not against Morgana." Gwaine's stubbornness extends up to and beyond disobeying a direct order, Arthur knows, and he doesn't exactly relish the idea of confronting Morgana alone. But there is magic humming in the air, thick and powerful enough for even Arthur to feel it, and it's giving shape to his instinct, putting words around the vague feeling at the back of his mind.

"I can do this, Gwaine. I have to do this. You can't help me against her, but you can help them." He gestures towards the courtyard, stopping short when he realises Gwaine is staring at his hand.

No, not at his hand, at the sword. It is sheathed in a gentle glow, its magic visible in a way that Arthur hasn't seen before. He thinks that he can hear the hum of the power, even over the sounds of the battle.

Gwaine blows out a long breath. "Who am I to argue with that?" he says. "Head back down that way, turn left at the end. You can't miss the way down." He claps Arthur on the shoulder. "Good luck."

"You too."

Arthur waits for a moment, watching him go. In his hand, the sword hums again, louder this time, before falling silent as the glow fades away. Not sure what sort of an omen that might be, Arthur turns and follows Gwaine's directions down into the bowels of the castle.

~

Aeldred’s horse wheels, front hooves leaving the ground and forcing him to cling on for a moment, the Saxon in front of him tumbling down. There will be more, of course, and they are crawling out of every doorway now, trying to pen the knights in, contain them. It is hard to turn the horses in such a tight space, but being mounted still gives them an advantage, and their horses are well-trained. The fight is not over yet, even if it is hard-going.

Across the yard, a sword flashes, Leon striking down at a man beneath, and then lifting his head to look for the next threat. His eyebrows rise as he looks past Aeldred, making Aeldred himself swing around, hoping it is not yet more reinforcements. 

A stream of men coming rushing out of the far doorway, wielding swords and axes and yelling something between a battle-cry and a howl of pain. They are dressed in ragged tunics, many of them have bare feet, and they fling themselves at the Saxons like wolves scenting the kill. None of them look to be soldiers, most of them in the brown homespun of peasants and farmers, but they take to the fight as though born to it. 

Aeldred narrows his eyes, flinging back two Saxons who are trying to come in at the men from the side, and instantly two knights are there, protecting the column. Leon himself urges his horse to guard the other side, cutting down another Saxon as yet more men come pouring out into the courtyard. 

What they lack in skill, the men make up for in weight of numbers, chopping down any Saxon who gets in their way. Some of them fall, and Aeldred knows they will not rise again, and their fallen only seem to spur the others on, screaming wordlessly as they hack with picks and the flat blades of shovels. As long as the knights can keep anyone from outflanking them, they will make short work of this. 

There is the sound of swords clashing across the courtyard, then a startled shout that carries even above the din. Aeldred looks over and sees Elyan leaning down, gripping a Saxon by one shoulder. 

No, not a Saxon, although he is wearing dark breeches and carrying one of their short swords. When he turns, grinning out at the carnage before him, Aeldred recognises Sir Gwaine, and a tight knot settles in his stomach. Gwaine is alone. 

There is no way to force his way across the melee, and Aeldred turns his attention back to the fight, sweeping his hand out to grab two Saxons who are trying to escape through an open doorway and dragging them onto their backs in the snow. There are still too many of them for him to become distracted now, so he resigns himself to waiting for answers, and hopes that the king is just waiting somewhere, out of sight, until the fight is over.

Even as he thinks it, he knows that there is no way Arthur Pendragon would let his men fight without him unless he had a very good reason for doing so.

~

Until he picks up the sense of Arthur moving through the caves, Merlin is sure he can do this. The power will come at his command, and he will control it. He will defeat Morgana, and he will ensure safe passage back to Camelot. It must be done.

Realising that Arthur is here, and alive, should help, except that at the same time, Merlin senses something else, a darker presence also moving through these narrow passageways, and the fear leaps in him. 

Morgana. 

He is too on edge already, too worried about finding Arthur and getting them both out of here alive. Morgana’s magic pressing against his as she too hunts for Arthur is too much, pushing his frayed control too far. 

Merlin flinches as the magic surfaces, the power that had been rolling under his skin breaking through at last. It isn’t as wild as last time, not yet, and he wrestles with it, trying desperately to direct it somehow. He is suddenly moving faster through the caves, his feet sure and light surrounding him now, lighting him up from within. The magic has purpose, to find Arthur, and for now, he will let it lead the way. 

He pushes to the back of his mind the fear of what will happen when he needs to take control of himself again. He is expendable. Arthur is not.

~

Arthur’s mind is playing tricks on him, making him jump at shadows and pause every time he hears something rumble in the distance. The fight has moved entirely to the surface now, and all there is left down here are dead bodies and discarded weapons, the place eerily deserted. He can imagine the huge main chamber full of men, all of them forced to hack at the rocks, and he almost trips over an abandoned shovel.

There’s a jagged slash in the rock on the other side of the chamber to the entrance he used, and the passage beyond it is darker. He takes one of the torches from the wall, shifting his grip until it’s balanced with his sword, and carefully starts to make his way into the darkness.

The passageway is high enough that he doesn’t have to duck, and the way is clear of boulders, so he is able to hurry, not quite running but not lingering either. Of course, he doesn’t know where he’s going, but the urgency is gripping him now. Merlin might not be down here, of course. This could all be a fool’s errand, or some kind of elaborate trap that Morgana has set him. 

Except, if there was a dragon down here, then Arthur knows Merlin would have followed. There’s more than that, though, something that Arthur can’t explain, an instinct that is pulling at him and telling him he’s headed in the right direction. He wonders if this is what it was like for Merlin, all those months ago, when he felt Aithusa’s presence again. No wonder he couldn’t resist it. If it's this strong for Arthur, with all his magic-blindness, it must have been unbearable for Merlin. Still, it's unnerving, choosing which way to go based on a pressure at the back of his mind, however sure of it he is. 

At a sound up ahead - a real sound this time, he’s sure of it - he stops, lifting both his torch and the sword, ready for whatever is waiting for him the shadows. He inches forward, casting the light as far as he can, then has to fumble not to drop it as something crawls out of the darkness.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

The last time he saw Aithusa, she was much smaller, barely bigger than a large dog, but her skin had shone and her eyes were bright and alive. The creature before him is hunched and sallow, every bone showing through her flaking skin, and the eyes that stare up at him seem empty. Without really thinking about it, Arthur drops to his knees, laying the sword on the ground.

"Aithusa?"

She opens her mouth, and nothing emerges but a croaking cry so full of pain that Arthur thinks his heart will break with it. He can’t imagine how Merlin would feel to see her like this. 

He’s jolted back to himself, remembering why he is here. 

"Where is Merlin?" he asks. There is no reply. Aithusa’s mouth opens, then shuts again, and she backs away a little, shaking her head. From the strangled noise she had made earlier, Arthur thinks he knows why. "You can’t speak," he says, inching closer, his hand outstretched. "I’m sorry." His voice is choked, and when he runs a hand over her face, she echoes the sound, as though whatever she wants to say is trapped in her throat. "I have to find Merlin," he says.

"Too late." 

The voice behind him is cold as ice, sending a chill down Arthur’s spine. Slowly, he gives Aithusa’s head one last caress, then picks up the sword and stands, turning to face Morgana.

"Where is he, Morgana?"

Her eyes, when she looks at him, barely seem human. Or they are those of someone driven by something more powerful than normal human reason. It would be easier, somehow, if he just thought her mad. What he sees is someone he loved as a sister, lost in her own anger and hate.

"Strangely enough, I don’t know," she says, her lips curling in a humourless smile. "I’ll deal with him later. How good of you to save me the trouble of finding you." Her sneer is cutting, familiar and alien all at once. "What on earth did you think you would accomplish, coming here?"

"What on earth made you think I wouldn't come?" he says, taking a step closer and dropping the torch to the ground. It will give light enough from there, and he wants to be able to put both hands on his sword. "You knew I would, as soon as you captured Merlin."

"Indeed. So predictable." Morgana’s eyes flash gold, and Arthur braces himself. 

But there is no bracing against the force that hits him square in the chest, throwing him through the air into the rocks behind him. Despite himself, he cries out, the force knocking the air out of him, and making him lose his grip on the sword. He doesn’t have the strength to prepare himself again, waiting for the impact of falling to the ground, and has to fight for breath when it doesn’t come. Morgana has pinned him to the wall, almost crushing him with the pressure. Every muscle in his body screams in protest, and his fingers twitch, trying to pull free, but he is held fast, black spots starting to swim in front of his eyes. 

"Morgana!"

The shout startles everyone, even Morgana, and Arthur is suddenly released, dropping to the ground and sucking in huge lungfuls of air. His knees won’t hold him, and he falls back against the rock, looking up in time to see Merlin standing at the other end of the corridor, lit by an unearthly glow. Arthur has seen Merlin produce all sorts of light, from bright flames to glowing, sparking globes that he can make dance around the room. The light around him now seems to be coming from Merlin himself, surrounding his hands and face as he calls to Morgana again.

"Leave him alone."

"Emrys." Ignoring Arthur for now, Morgana turns to him. "I wondered when you would show yourself again."

"You cannot defeat me, Morgana," Merlin says, and there is an edge to his voice that Arthur has never heard before. It is as though he is speaking another’s words, as though a second voice is behind his, two of them speaking in perfect unison. For the first time, Arthur is truly afraid. "You don’t have the power."

"And you have so much." Morgana has stopped a few paces away from Merlin, and Arthur sees her tilt her head thoughtfully. "Can you contain it? Or will you destroy us all, as you did your prison?" She sounds calm, reasonable almost. "If you try to kill me, are you sure that you will not bring the entire castle down on our heads? What will happen to your precious king then?"

"Stop it." The panicked note sounds more like Merlin, more human somehow, and the glow around him brightens for a second before dimming again, lower than it was before. He lifts a hand as though trying to ward Morgana off. "Stay back."

"Or what?" Morgana laughs. "To think that someone as weak as you has been given all this power. It’s insulting. You don’t even have the courage to fight me." She whispers a word in that strange, magical language and Merlin cries out, dropping to his knees.

"Don’t." His voice cracks on the word. "I can’t-"

Morgana moves closer, standing over him now, and Arthur struggles to get to his feet, but his body will not cooperate, still too dazed and trembling. He is shaking so much that it takes him a moment to realise that the entire cavern is moving, as though seized by an earthquake. As Merlin cries out again, the tremors increase, the light surrounding him flaring up fiercely. Arthur has no idea what Morgana is trying to do, because she will be entombed in rock as well if Merlin brings the ceiling down. He has opened his mouth to say something, anything that might break the awful tableau just feet away from him, when a shadow seems to detach itself from the wall, moving behind Morgana.

She straightens, turning just a little, and Arthur sees the triumphant smile on her face, the light of magic in her eyes. The light that slowly dies, her smile fading as she sways on her feet, leaning into the dark figure.

"Mordred?" 

In the sudden silence, Arthur hears the unmistakable sound of a blade being withdrawn from flesh, and as Mordred steps away, Morgana crumples to the ground. Beyond her, Merlin has pitched forward onto his face, lying so still that Arthur’s breath catches in his aching lungs. Then Mordred stoops, pulling Merlin’s arm over his shoulder, and standing with an effort. He is a head shorter than Merlin, but seems strong enough, turning easily to look back at Arthur. 

"I’ll make sure he’s safe," he says, in that low, unemotional voice. "Then I’ll send someone back down."

In the flickering torchlight, Arthur watches him leave, his arm firm around Merlin’s waist as he drags him around the corner. With a curse, Arthur tries to drag himself up again, only succeeding in falling onto his face on the ground, his arms giving way when he tries to get up. Everything hurts, and he wants to just close his eyes and sleep.

~

_"A galleon!"_

_There was a round of cheers as the flaming ship slowly rose from the fire, the sparks forming perfect, tiny oars that rowed it around the circle of knights._

_"The queen!"_

_That got a ripple of slightly nervous laughter, and Merlin glanced at Arthur, his eyes crinkling in a smile before he nodded towards the fire again. Arthur smiled as Gwen's face emerged, a flaming crown on her head. He applauded with the others, and then held up a hand._

_"I don't think you're going to better that," he said, "and we have a busy day tomorrow."_

_There was a general murmuring of assent from the gathered knights, everyone taking it as the dismissal it was. A couple of them stopped to say something to Merlin, smiling at him or clapping him on the shoulder as they left._

_"Nicely played, your highness," Gwaine said, settling down beside Arthur and following his gaze across the fire._

_Arthur didn't pretend not to understand. "They need to trust him off the battlefield as well as on it," he said evenly. "It's easy to accept someone when they're saving your life."_

_"Harder when you try to see them as a person later, after they've been throwing lightning bolts down or turning the enemies' weapons to ash." Nodding, Gwaine leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his feet towards the fire. "Not just something to be used when you need it. I get it."_

_They both watched as Merlin bent his head towards Elyan's, grinning at whatever was being said._

_"It means a lot to him." Gwaine's voice was low enough, and Merlin was far away enough, that Arthur doubted they could be overheard._

_"I know," he said, picking up his cup again, and staring into the dregs of his beer. "It's a lot to ask of him."_

_"I don't know, I think he likes doing it. Did you know he once made an entire army come marching out of the fire, complete with tiny banners? Let's hope tomorrow's lot are as easily extinguished." Seeing Arthur's look, Gwaine grinned. "Or maybe you were talking about something else." He turned back to the fire, some of the humour bleeding out of his smile, replaced with something more affectionate. "Maybe he likes doing that too. He waited a long time to stand at your side, Arthur. Don't go spoiling it for him now."_

_"Spoiling what?" Merlin dropped down on Gwaine's other side, the smile still on his face._

_"Spoiling you," Gwaine lied, so smoothly that even Arthur almost believed him. "His majesty here seems to think you need a bodyguard for the fight tomorrow."_

_Merlin's indignant gaping gave Arthur a chance to pull his thoughts together, swirling his beer a little and getting his expression back under control._

_"Me?" Merlin said, waving a hand at Arthur. "What about him? He's the one who insists on standing at the front of the army with a banner over his head. Might as well paint a target on his helmet and have done with it."_

_"Don't be an idiot, Merlin," Arthur said, rolling his eyes. "I'm the king, what do you expect me to do? Hover at the back and hope no one notices me?"_

_"It'd make my job a lot easier if you did." Sighing dramatically, Merlin leaned in towards the fire, nudging the flames a little higher with a golden-eyed glance. "And here was I, thinking that when I stopped being your manservant, I wouldn't have to keep looking after you."_

_There was an edge of tension in his voice though, a note of genuine concern. Since Arthur still had a moment of brief panic every time someone fired a crossbow in Merlin's general direction on the battlefield, he supposed he couldn't really tell Merlin to stop worrying._

_Between them, Gwaine folded his arms behind his head and lay back, staring up at the sky. "Don’t worry, Merlin," he said, "Leon and Elyan will make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, and if he does, Percival's got his back. And you," he added, lifting one hand and flicking Arthur on the arm, "stop being such a mother hen. I've got _his_ back."_

_That made Merlin snort with laughter, and Arthur found himself smiling as well, the knot in his stomach that always came with the anticipation of battle tempered a little by the easy way Merlin and Gwaine were grinning at each other, the knowledge that for all their joking, they really did have each other's backs._

_"Neither of you are going to be much use for anything if you don't get some sleep," he said, draining his cup and getting to his feet. Still stretched out on the grass, Gwaine gave him a lazy salute, but Merlin scrambled up, drawing alongside him as Arthur walked towards his tent._

_"Arthur, I-"_

_"Merlin." Arthur stopped just short of the entrance, turning to look at Merlin with one eyebrow raised. "If you say anything portentous or heartfelt about the importance of tomorrow's battle, I swear, I will have Gwaine confine you to camp for the duration."_

_Merlin opened his mouth, closed it again, opened it again then grinned sheepishly. "Right," he said, nodding. "Just… Good luck, then. Sleep well, sire."_

_"You too." That was enough, of course, and it really was ridiculous, but Arthur couldn't help himself. As Merlin turned to go, he shook his head at his own sentimentality before saying, "Merlin?"_

_The firelight caught in Merlin's eyes as he looked back at Arthur, the reflected glow a distant echo of the gold of his magic. Arthur looked away a little, trying to untie his tongue, and caught sight of Gwaine, apparently dozing gently by the fire. He was still well within earshot, and probably not nearly as asleep as he looked. He would also never let Arthur live it down if he ducked out of this._

_When Arthur turned back, Merlin was watching him, head tilted a little and eyebrows raised._

_"Yes?" he said, looking as though he was fighting back a grin._

_It took Arthur a moment longer of searching for what to say, but then he knew where to find it; he'd said this before on that magical shoreline, faced with what he'd thought was the certainty of death for his foolish mistake in killing the unicorn. It was so long ago that it seemed like a lifetime, and now, as then, he found that he meant every word._

_"I'm glad you're here, Merlin," he said, seeing in his eyes that Merlin too could hear the echo of that distant past. "I couldn't do it without you."_

_"You could," Merlin said, no longer trying to stop the grin from showing, "but I'm glad you don't have to. Good night, Arthur."_

_"Good night, Merlin."_

~

Arthur must have passed out for a moment, because he finds himself opening his eyes, flinching as a gentle hand touches his back. He has been healed by magic before, so he knows the feeling, manages to relax as the warmth eases through him, taking some of the ache from his body. When he can move, he pushes himself up to his knees, blinking in the gentle glow that seems to be filling the cave. It’s a different cave to the one he fell in, wider and higher, with fallen rocks piles on one side like a giant’s staircase. He turns towards the source of the light, and his breath catches in his throat.

The creature smiles at him, a gesture tinged with sadness. "Greetings, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot. I am Euchdag."

Although the title means nothing to Arthur, he nods as respectfully as he can when his neck is still stiff and sore. "Thank you," he says, "for healing me." He glances around the cave. "Where are we?"

"Not far from where I found you," Euchdag says, sitting back and wrapping his arms around his knees. "But a simple blade cannot kill a priestess, and I thought it better if you were not there when she awoke."

Arthur swallows, his heart sinking. "Morgana survived." At Euchdag’s nod, he adds, "And Aithusa?"

"Both Morgana and the dragon will be far away from Ismere very soon."

There is something odd about the phrasing, and Arthur frowns, trying to place it. "How do you know that?" he asks, the idea niggling at the back of his mind.

"Nothing is hidden from me," Euchdag says, and there is a heaviness in the words, a weight that is more than just that of a lonely creature living in the darkness.

Arthur stares. "You are the Diamair," he says, surprise almost taking the words from him. 

"I am."

Although Mordred had said so little about what the Diamair was, Arthur can almost feel the sorrow coming from Euchdag, the burden of carrying all knowledge. He shivers when Euchdag speaks again. 

"Is there anything you wish to ask me?"

In his mind’s eye, Arthur sees the vision again, the one that he has carried with him for days. Mordred’s face, the sword flashing under the blood-red sky, and Merlin’s broken cry. Just carrying that burden has been enough. 

"No," he says, and is rewarded with something closer to a real smile this time. 

"Emrys said the same. I see his king is as wise as he is."

Despite himself, Arthur smiles. "I like to think he learned it from me." In the distance, Arthur hears voices, the sound of his name being called loudly. He carefully gets to his feet, grateful that his legs will hold him, even if they do feel like he’s run twenty miles in full armour.

Euchdag rises as well, and after a moment, accepts Arthur’s outstretched hand. "I have one last thing I can offer you, Arthur Pendragon," he says, the grip of his slim fingers surprisingly firm. "The image that haunts you, the vision you have feared, I can remove it from your mind. You will not remember it at all."

Arthur blinks, surprised. "Isn’t it something I need to know?" he asks.

"While the prophets see truly, they do not see all." There is steeliness in Euchdag’s voice for the first time, some of the gentleness bleeding away. "Not all prophecies are what they seem."

It is tempting, he has to admit, particularly now, when he is exhausted and sore and weary from days of worry. He shakes his head reluctantly. "No," he says. "It is better that I know something than to know nothing. Thank you, though, for your advice. I will remember it."

"You would do well to." Euchdag releases him, and Arthur thinks he hears disappointment in the words. "Your friends will be here soon. Be well, Arthur Pendragon."

"Thank you," Arthur says again, glancing over his shoulder to where the shouts are growing louder. When he turns back, Euchdag is gone, and he is standing in the dark, staring at nothing. 

Shivering a little, he turns and starts to make his slow, aching way out of the cave.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)


	12. Epilogue

  
_Reveal not every secret you have to a friend, for how can you tell but that friend may hereafter become an enemy. And bring not all mischief you are able to upon an enemy, for he may one day become your friend._  
Saadi

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

The great hall of Ismere has seen better days, even before Merlin did- Whatever he did. Arthur has been trying not to think too hard about that. He’s spent most of the last few hours trying to organise a couple of dozen over-excited knights, a party of druids and scores of tired villagers into some kind of caravan, arranging for people to be taken home, or to Caerleon to take news to Annis, or back to Camelot to let Guinevere know that all is well.

All is well. He has to believe that. And spending time being talked at by three different people at once, all the time trying not to show just how much he still aches all over from Morgana’s attack, has been good for keeping him distracted from everything else that he could worry about. No one has really asked him any questions about what happened down the caves, and he doesn't know how he would answer if they did, not yet. Not having time to think about it feels like a very good thing, although he knows it will catch up with him at some point.

He hasn’t seen Merlin at all, although Gwaine promised him he was fine, spending some time with ‘that druid lad’ away from the bustle of the courtyard. When he’d heard that, Arthur had been glad for the soreness of his body that stopped him jumping out of his chair and racing through the corridors of the castle. It gave him a chance to stop and think, to remember that despite everything, Mordred was apparently not the enemy after all. Probably. For now. And anyway, chasing down men under his command is not exactly being behaviour becoming to the king, 

Standing in the doorway of the hall, watching Merlin pick his way through the fallen stones and stir the dust with the toe of his boot, Arthur is finding it harder to keep telling himself that. 

"Typical," he says loudly, trying not to wince as it echoes around the hall. "There’s me, doing all the work as usual, and you’re nowhere to be found. Shirking, that’s what I call it."

Merlin gives him a wan smile, little of his usual amusement in his eyes, which are blank and ringed with dark circles. "Come on, it’s not like you were actually doing anything except sitting there and talking, were you? Even you can manage that."

It’s a good enough attempt at being himself, at sounding like _Merlin_ , that Arthur forces a smile, pushing stiffly off the doorframe and making his way across the hall. The floor is littered with tiny fragments of something that crunch beneath his feet. "What happened in here?" he asks.

"I did." Merlin lowers himself carefully onto one of the piles of stones, making room for Arthur next to him. "I think."

"You made a hell of a mess." The stone is hard, and Arthur isn’t sure if it’s much of an improvement on standing, but Merlin seems comfortable enough, so he supposes he can put up with it. He leans back on his hands. "So," he says, watching Merlin’s profile, which seems to have been carved from marble, he’s so pale and still, as though the smile he gave Arthur before has drained all the energy out of him. "Am I going to have to keep asking until I find the right question, or are you just going to tell me what happened?"

Of course, Merlin learned his question-avoidance skills from Gaius, who had twenty-five years of practice under Uther. The two of them should write a book. 

"As soon as I work it out for myself, I’ll let you know." 

That’s not quite the same as saying Merlin doesn’t know, more that he doesn’t know what it means. Right now, Arthur would settle for just a basic description of events, because he’s damned if he knows how Merlin did it, breaking what he’s told was a solid cage into thousands of tiny pieces. Merlin’s powerful, but not that powerful. Except-

"In the cave, then," he says, still watching for any flicker of movement. "I saw you, Merlin. Whatever that was, it wasn’t just magic."

"Actually, I think it was." The bitter note in Merlin’s voice doesn’t belong there. He sounds old. "I think just magic is exactly what you were seeing."

Arthur is almost proud of how normal his voice sounds as he says, "That doesn’t make any sense." It's not quite a lie, and not nearly enough of the truth, but he can't quite find a way to ask about his vision yet. 

"I know." Rubbing his hands together, Merlin takes a deep breath. "You should make Mordred a knight of Camelot."

It’s one of his more spectacular changes of subject, and Arthur finds himself reacting despite himself, so surprised that his hands nearly slip and pitch him backwards off the stone.

"What?"

"You should make Mordred a knight of Camelot," Merlin says patiently. "He’s earned it, don’t you think? And I know Aeldred told you about Eric." He turns then, sharp eyes searching Arthur’s face. "You need more knights that have magic, Arthur, and you need to bring the druids closer to Camelot. This will do both. Eric has borne the burden alone for long enough."

Arthur sucks in a long breath, letting the sting of the cold and his aching chest cut through some of his instinctive reaction. He wants to say no, of course. That he can’t even think of doing such a thing, but then he will have to tell Merlin of his vision, and he is not sure he is ready for that yet.

"What about the prophecy?" he says, raising an eyebrow when Merlin looks surprised. "Yes, I worked it out. I’m not the complete idiot in this friendship, remember?"

"Prophecy can be defied," Merlin says. He gets to his feet, and movement seems to be as hard for him as it is for Arthur. "And if you really want to defy it, I can’t think of a better way than welcoming him in."

Merlin might have a point, of course, loathe though Arthur is to admit it. He thinks that when he gets back, he's going to have to have a long talk with both Aeldred and Kilgharrah about prophecy, and how he never wants to hear another one again. Not if this is what it's going to do to him. 

Aloud, he says, "I was thinking of knighting some of the men who came with Aeldred, the ones who showed a particular aptitude for the fight. I’d offer it to Aeldred himself but-"

"He’ll refuse. It’s a good idea, though." One of Merlin’s hands is rubbing the back of his neck, a habit that Arthur recognises. "You’ll need help around you while I’m gone."

If the nervous tic hadn’t given Merlin away, Arthur would have been less prepared for the statement. As it is, he’s on his feet and half-tripping over stones as he crosses to stand in front of Merlin, resisting the urge to reach out and shake him. 

"What do you mean, gone? I only just found you." The words echo around the hall, Arthur's voice sounding more desperate that he'd intended.

"I know." Merlin drops his hand, gesturing to the room around them instead. "Look around you, Arthur. I did this, and I don’t even remember doing it. What Morgana said in the caves? It was true. I could have brought the whole place down on us, killed everyone up here as well. I’m not safe to be around at the moment."

Arthur’s brain doesn’t seem to be working fast enough. He knew all of that somehow, and none of it mattered, because he trusts Merlin with his life, no matter what. This cannot be happening. "Don't be ridiculous. You're safer in Camelot than anywhere else."

"I can't control it," Merlin says, turning away, his shoulders hunched. "If it hadn't been for Mordred, I don't know if I could have stopped myself. So what happens the next time the city is attacked? Or you go flinging yourself in front of danger like you always do? No." He shakes his head. "I won't do that to you."

_And I won't do that to you._ Arthur knows then that he's going to give in, that he'll let Merlin go without a proper fight, because if there's even the slightest chance of avoiding that terrible vision, he'll take it. And staying in Camelot, staying near Arthur, will only put Merlin in more danger. Swallowing hard in the hope of getting at least some control over his voice, Arthur says, "Where will you go?"

"East," Merlin says, with a promptness that tells Arthur he’s thought about this, it’s not a spur of the moment decision. "Aeldred says there are some druid clans there who know about some of the deeper magic, the older prophecies. I’m going to meet Kilgharrah there."

"You told him before you told me?" That really wasn’t what Arthur meant to say, and he shrugs a little in apology when Merlin raises an eyebrow at him. "You don’t have to do this," he says softly. "I’m not afraid of you."

"I am."

They could stand here and argue for the rest of the evening, Arthur knows, and at the end of it, Merlin would walk away and do exactly as he chooses. Better that he leaves knowing where his home is, where he can come back to, whenever he is ready.

Without thinking about it too hard, Arthur pulls on Merlin’s arm, making him stumble a little as Arthur pulls him into a hug. It’s awkward, Merlin seemingly scared to be this close, and Arthur hurting in every muscle as he tightens his grip.

"Gwen’s going to kill me when I come home without you," he says into Merlin’s ear, and is rewarded with a soft laugh, Merlin relaxing a little and patting Arthur’s back before pulling himself free.

"Say hello for me," Merlin says, running his hands over his face in another familiar gesture, clearing his eyes before Arthur can see the tears. "I’ll send Kilgharrah with word as soon as I can."

"When will you leave?" It’s a pointless question, since Arthur can already guess at the answer.

"Gwaine has a horse waiting for me." There’s something of an apology in there this time that once again, Arthur is the last to know what is happening. "I want to be past the ice fields by nightfall."

Arthur nods. "I’ll expect to hear from you soon, then," he says, trying to sound at least a little stern. It would really help if Merlin's eyes weren't still shining, or if Arthur could stop himself from reaching out and putting a hand on Merlin's arm, a final touch before Merlin moves away.

"Of course." Picking carefully through the rubble, Merlin pauses in the doorway, turning back to Arthur. "Make sure you do the right thing, Arthur," he says, and the bow he gives is nothing like his usual, perfunctory nod of the head. It is deep and sincere, and by the time Arthur has recovered enough to reply, Merlin is gone.

The sun is coming up through the shattered windows, weak and watery, but still brightening the hall. It will be full daylight soon, time for the assembled men outside to start their weary journeys home, and for Arthur to lead his people back to Camelot. The journey will give him time to think, he decides, and to work out what he means to do. After all, he can’t let Merlin think he can order the king around, just like that. Arthur will do as he chooses, and if he chooses to bestow knighthoods on men who have proved their worth, then so be it. 

Smiling at the lies he tells himself, Arthur makes his way out of the hall, back towards his men and Camelot.

[ ](http://aaweth-edain.livejournal.com/23423.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Click to access the soundtrack on YouTube](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLv8lCPpg4QQCFkDbrpbJfkpEm1hdKsM5E)   
> [](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLv8lCPpg4QQCFkDbrpbJfkpEm1hdKsM5E)   
> 


End file.
